THE PERFECT

FIANCÉ

Bianca Blythe

Contents

How to Capture a Duke

About the Author

Blurb

The Perfect Fiancé is a short prequel

novella to Bianca Blythe’s

Matchmaking for Wallflowers series.

It contains 15,000 words.

***

Rosamund Amberly is overjoyed.

And soon, she’s certain, she’ll start

feeling the emotion.

Rosamund prides herself on her

matchmaking skills. After meeting

Marcus Worthing, Earl of Somerville

and her older sister’s childhood best

friend, she knows she’s found the perfect

fiancé . . . for her reclusive sister.

Unfortunately, she’s spending far too

much time thinking about the man.

***

Bonus: Includes the first chapter

of How to Capture a Duke which

starts at the 80% point.

Acknowledgements

Thank you so much to my wonderful

editor, Allison Wright. My cover artist is

the amazing Angela Waters.

Chapter One

August 1814

Yorkshire

Marcus Worthing, Earl of

Somerville, marched into the woods that

bordered Sir Seymour’s home,

undeterred by the constant, cold breeze

and the conviction that the gust was

shaping his hair in a fashion London’s

dandies would declare most undignified.

His feet slipped in a thick sludge of

mud, coating his Hessians with

something rather less proper than the

polish his valet slathered on early every

morning.

Not that he cared.

Right now the rain had ceased, and

he’d jaunted from his host’s manor

house, attired in the only pair of

buckskin breeches he possessed that he

wouldn’t mind seeing destroyed should

another downpour occur. Wet

wildflowers clung to his Hessians,

speckling them all manner of improper

colors, and a musky scent pervaded him.

Light glistened from the trees, the

effect amplified by the generous sheen of

rainwater that still clung to the bark and

leaves. The grass, when it was visible in

the thicket, remained a deep green shade,

one that could only be achieved by a

steady, months-long downpour.

Everyone had warned him that of all

the ideas he’d ever had, the very worst

was visiting Yorkshire. They’d all said

the intelligence he possessed that had

caused his book on zoology to be lauded

by Oxford’s most persnickety

intellectuals did not extend to holiday

planning.

Obviously they were all wrong. But

then, the ton tended toward inaccuracy.

A quiet retreat. Something to clear

his mind from the matchmaking mamas

who roamed London’s ballrooms with

more vigor than their military-trained

husbands. That was all he’d desired.

And he’d found it. His lips stretched

up again.

Bang. A shot fired through the

countryside, and the sound thundered in

his ears.

The thought of quiet was what had

sustained him to travel in the jostling

carriage over the narrow, muddy lanes

Northerners called roads, and had

spurred him to reject crimson-sealed

invitations to manor houses located in

tamed areas.

Bang. Bang. Bang.

He tightened his hand around the

basket he’d crammed with a blanket and

scientific articles.

This was not quiet. This was not

even remotely peaceful.

Marcus inhaled and forced his

shoulders to relax. After all, this was

local color. A sound to be savored. He

wouldn’t hear this back in Grosvenor

Square. Indeed, the fact that bullets were

blaring about here was only a sign of the

pleasant change of pace from the

constant magnificence of London’s best

ballrooms.

Really, it was an ideal holiday.

Truly.

Shots exploded through the

wilderness and pheasants thudded to the

ground, as if testing Galileo’s

experiment on gravity.

Except even the greatest proponent

of Sir Seymour, Marcus’s host and the

self-designated most important person in

all Yorkshire, could not attribute the

baronet with scientific inclinations,

much less a desire to duplicate scientific

experiments that stemmed from the

continent.

Marcus headed deeper into the

wooded area that encircled the estate,

lest his host invite him to take part in the

man’s macabre hobby. Marcus’s feet

padded over the deep moss, and his eyes

grew accustomed to the shadows cast

from the tall trees. This couldn’t vary

more from the manicured lawns of Hyde

Park, which rumbled with the sounds of

trotting horses and giggling chits.

Stillness pervaded this place.

Sunbeams fanned through the leaves and

the forest glittered. He spread his

blanket over the ground and settled

down.

Marcus wasn’t here for festivities or

hunting, Scotch reels or lengthy teas. He

craved nature and quiet. And by George,

he’d found it.

He let out a sigh, the lengthy, blissful

kind London’s rogues would disapprove

of.

A twig crunched in the distance, and

he scrutinized the sound.

An animal. Probably. After all, that’s

what they had outside London. They

couldn’t just have people with charming,

outrageous dialects.

Something flitted between the trees.

A figure in a gray dress strode over

the mossy ground, unperturbed by the

jagged rocks and gnarled tree roots that

impeded her path. Crimson curls fell

from her bun.

Lord. Perhaps it was a poacher.

Yorkshire’s remoteness lessened in

appeal, and Marcus shifted his legs.

He resisted the urge to confront her.

The penalty for poaching was hanging,

and despite the splendor of Sir

Seymour’s estate, he didn’t want to

sentence a person to death for grabbing a

few foxes from it.

If there were any foxes. Estates

culled predators before the hunting

season, all the better to ensure sufficient

pheasants for the aristocrats to shoot.

And he doubted his host wanted to

share his catch with anyone.

He removed a pair of binoculars and

cast his gaze upward. Perhaps he might

see an interesting bird. A spotted

flycatcher, or perhaps even a black

grouse.

Another twig snapped, and another

woman flitted between the Wyche elms

and sycamores. Lord, he may as well

have attempted to work in the center of

Piccadilly Circus.

This chit wore a green dress, not that

the color succeeded in camouflaging her.

She flickered her glance between the

trees, and if the notion weren’t absurd,

he’d almost think she were following the

other woman.

But such actions were for spies, not

—

Bang.

Sir Seymour’s gun fired again.

That blasted baronet.

Lord, no one should be around now.

Not with Sir Seymour’s vigorous

gunfire. He knew the direction of the

baronet’s shooting, but not everyone

would.

Marcus prided himself on his

concentration, but his overwhelming

emotion now had nothing to do with the

categorization of species.

Marcus returned his gaze to the chit.

No doubt the onslaught of bullets would

have deterred her from her path.

And yet—she continued to stride

toward the clearing, despite the fact that

a casual bullet might collide into her,

were she to venture farther.

Marcus’s nostrils flared, and he

hollered. “I say.”

His voice boomed, and he cursed the

rough edge.

Not that it mattered. The woman’s

stride didn’t waver, and he scrambled

up. He shouted again, bellowing like

some hackney driver forcing his coach

through a torrent of swiftly moving

curricles and phaetons.

This time the woman’s eyes

widened.

“Halt,” he thundered.

The woman hastened in the very

direction he was warning her against.

Perhaps madness was indeed common in

Yorkshire.

“Halt,” he repeated.

She scampered away, and her

chignon collapsed into a cascade of

long, bronze locks.

He swallowed hard.

She was headed straight in the

direction of the gunshots. He followed

her, and his feet pounded over the soil,

crushing the grass and wildflowers.

“Wait,” he called.

The words failed to dissuade her,

and the woman’s steps quickened. She

seemed to have no fear as she wound her

way through the narrow groupings of

trees.

Bang. Bang. Bang.

Shots fired from the baronet’s estate.

They were approaching the shooting

range. No way would he permit this

woman to risk her life.

Sir Seymour tended to speak ill of

people roaming his estate. The man had

a fierce temper, and right now he had a

gun in his hand.

Blast.

Sweat prickled the back of Marcus’s

neck, and he scuttled after the stranger,

thanking the athletic inclination that had

compelled him to continue his racketball

and cricket playing even after he had left

Oxford.

His muscles burned. The woman had

a head start on him, and clearly she

possessed superior knowledge of the

area. Was she an off-duty governess? A

lady’s maid?

The answer didn’t matter. The only

thing that mattered was making certain

he reached her in time.

Finally he gained on her, and he was

conscious of a forest-green dress and

bronze curls.

Bang. Bang.

His host continued to fire shots.

Marcus cursed and leaped after the

woman.

His body soared, and he stretched

out his arms as if he might actually fly.

In truth, he did succeed in stopping

her relentless pace, and he did attempt to

steady them both.

Yet the force of his weight and the

unevenness of the ground were a ruinous

combination.

Marcus toppled, clutching the

stranger as they both slammed against

the ground, the wildflowers serving as

an imperfect cushion. Galileo could

have predicted the outcome, likely with

a smirk over his wizened face.

Pain seared him, but then a delicious

vanilla scent pierced his consciousness,

and silky locks fell against him.

An outraged cry interrupted his

musing, and the figure scrambled up.

Marcus clutched her ankle, stopping

her before she might decide to continue

her path into the unspeakable danger.

“Do not move.”

“Get your beastly hand off me.” The

woman’s voice came out in pants.

Something heaved in the pit of his

stomach. The woman thought him a

threat. He was frightening her.

But this was about protection. “Sir

Seymour—you must know—the baronet

at Elm Hall is shooting.”

Her head tilted, and he allowed

himself to exhale. Good. Even the most

eccentric local couldn’t escape knowing

Sir Seymour.

“He won’t be happy that there’s an

intruder,” Marcus continued.

She stilled.

“He’s hunting,” Marcus said.

She blinked.

“With a weapon,” he added.

Her lips twitched. “Pheasants, I

believe.”

“You know—”

“Tis the season. I suppose you are

informing me,” she continued, “that he

has chosen a cannon as his weapon.”

“I—” Marcus’s stomach twisted, and

he scratched the back of his neck.

Dark eyes sparkled. “You don’t

spend much time in the country, do you?”

He shook his head.

“You should ask Sir Seymour to

demonstrate the distance achieved by his

bullets.”

Oh.

She shrugged. “Perhaps men in

possession of aristocratic accents are

not acquainted with the limited

capabilities of guns.”

Marcus was rarely mistaken, but he

sensed he’d succeeded in adding to

those infrequent occurrences. Somehow

the thought of his foolishness being

discovered by this woman seemed

particularly rankling. “Sir Seymour was

shooting in the direction of the forest.”

“I didn’t know pheasants had taken

to wandering instead of flying.”

“It would be a healthier pastime for

them,” Marcus muttered. He’d

envisioned being thanked just about now.

Lauded. Praised. Perhaps promised that

she would name her first-born after him.

Not—laughed at.

Normally he only reserved this

amount of irritation for particularly

trying problems of biology. He fought to

keep his expression placid. His heart

hadn’t stopped its frantic beating, and he

was conscious that his hair clung to his

brow in a manner more befitting an

athlete than an earl.

“You were trying to rescue me?” Her

alto voice was far too melodic to

despise.

“Of course I bloody was.”

She gasped, and he clamped his lips

firmly together. Perhaps it wasn’t exactly

appropriate to curse before a lady. No

matter what activities she adopted.

“Forgive my language.”

She stared at him for a moment more,

and then a smile played over her face.

“You were trying to rescue me.”

“Yes.”

“Mostly people desire my help.”

He blinked, and her lips arched up

farther. A strange urge to categorize their

exact shade of dusty rose overcame

Marcus.

His face warmed. “Perhaps I was

overhasty in my assessment of the

danger. Forgive my—impulsivity.”

She shook her head, still smiling.

“You were heroic.”

“Oh.” No one had ever uttered that

word to describe him before. They’d

called him handsome and well-bred.

Intelligent was a term frequently

ascribed to him, though clearly the

people who’d extolled him thus had

never foreseen his behavior here.

No one had called him heroic

before. His eyes flared, and he

scrutinized her.

The woman’s skin was more tanned

than the ladies’ of the ton, and her hair

tumbled down into soft curls. Long, dark

eyelashes flickered over warm brown

eyes.

She stiffened. “I—I should return,”

she said.

He nodded. “Wait—What’s your

name?”

She tilted her head. “Rosamund

Amberly.”

Warmth spread from his neck to his

cheeks. “You’re Sir Seymour’s niece.”

“I see you are in possession of some

acumen.” Rosamund smiled, and

somehow the mere raising of her lips

caused his heartbeat to escalate.

“I remember you.” His tongue felt

thick in his mouth. The last time he’d

seen her, she’d been about four,

following him and her older sister about.

That had been the last summer his

grandparents had been alive, and his

father had seen no more need to indulge

his mother’s desire to visit the far-

removed county of her girlhood after

they’d died.

He’d thought the time had been a

lifetime ago, but staring into the

woman’s amused brown eyes, he wasn’t

as convinced. “I’m—”

“Marcus Worthing, Earl of

Somerville?” A flush darkened the

golden hue of her face. “Forgive me. I

suppose you must rather enjoy saying

that. I remember you too.”

“I—” Somehow he struggled more

for words in her presence.

“You have an admirable sense of

duty, my lord.” She smiled. “Though

now I must return home.”

She gave a cheerful wave and strode

back toward a thicket of trees.

His heartbeat remained elevated, and

Marcus told himself it was because of

the exertion of running over the new

terrain.

It wasn’t anything about the woman

herself. A man who had left the capital

to escape the onslaught of females did

not go about musing on one woman’s

charms.

Chapter Two

Rosamund Amberly dashed through the

wooded terrain that separated

Cloudbridge Castle from her uncle’s

estate, grateful when the familiar jagged

turrets poked over the tree-lined horizon.

Her sister had a secret, and

Rosamund had planned to discover it

today.

No matter. Success would happen

later.

Her lips twitched at the memory of

the man with the sturdy jaw, wide-set

shoulders, and a misguided attempt to

save her. Southerners.

An idea occurred to her, and she

smiled as she neared the castle, slowing

her pace. Her sister, Fiona, was in

obvious need of a husband, and this

childhood friend, with his strange

attempts at chivalry, might be the perfect

match.

One couldn’t look at the man’s

chiseled features without comparing him

to a storybook hero. Even Fiona would

be intrigued.

The butler greeted her at the door.

“There’s someone to see you, Miss

Amberly. I’ve put him in the drawing

room.”

Her eyes widened, and for a foolish

second her heart lurched. “Thank you,

Evans.”

Lord Somerville.

She smoothed her dress and hair

frantically.

Had he followed her home? And

managed to situate himself in the

drawing room?

Impossible.

But when Evans opened the door to

the drawing room and bent his torso into

a slight bow, the lack of a broad-

shouldered man with rakish dark

features peering over Grandmother’s

china did send a disappointing pang to

her stomach.

Instead George Dunbar, a widower

with three children, was perched in an

armchair, drinking from one of the pink-

and-green Staffordshire cups. His hair

was slicked back, and Rosamund was

certain his cravat was tied in a manner

more flamboyant than he tended to favor.

Rosamund’s stomach tightened.

She’d done this before.

“Ah,” Dunbar squeaked. The teacup

rattled in his hand, and he shoved it onto

the table and scrambled up. “Your

Grandmother was here, but then she

desired to rest. Which is—er—good.”

“Oh?” She strove to retain a casual

tone.

Dunbar leaned toward her. “I have a

matter of some privacy to discuss.”

“Indeed.” She swallowed a sigh and

settled into an armchair.

Yes, she’d certainly done this before.

When George Dunbar flicked his

gaze at the carpet, as if assessing its

softness, and tottered downward,

Rosamund didn’t hesitate. “The answer

is no.”

“No?” Dunbar scrunched his

forehead, and one knee grazed against

the floor. He wobbled on it, the strain

showing in deep creases on his brow.

“But I haven’t said anything yet.”

“Would it help?” Rosamund softened

her voice. She’d found that when a man

was in the midst of proposing, he tended

toward a greater display of emotion than

was his habit.

“I was about to speak about our

eternal happiness.” If the man had

attempted to hide his petulance, he’d

failed to do so well.

Rosamund smiled. “Perhaps I

shouldn’t have stopped you.”

After all, she did appreciate when

people praised her. Not that they reached

for comparisons with the heavens and

the hillsides when they described her

features, their creativity only hampered

by the nature at hand. Such rapturous

praise was reserved for other women.

Women they didn’t actually contemplate

marrying. Women they would have been

too intimidated by to propose to on a

whim.

Something about Rosamund’s

sensible expression reassured even the

timidest men. Her warm brown eyes and

mousy hair, features that wouldn’t be out

of place on a maid, appealed to them.

The unfashionable breadth of her hips

was seen as a childbearing advantage,

and it didn’t matter that her skin tended

to freckle and tan at a rate associated

with Americans.

Men in Yorkshire didn’t travel to

London. And if they did, they wouldn’t

take their wives. She would be home

with the children, and if they were so

inclined, they might explore London’s

nighttime offerings on their own,

indulging in vices as their wives tended

to the hearths at home.

So Rosamund often got proposals,

and though on occasion she’d pondered

whether she should take any of the men

up on their hasty offers, she’d read

enough books to wonder whether there

might be something else in this world.

“So we can marry?” Dunbar beamed

and lowered his knee firmly to the

ground. He rustled in his purse. “For the

children are not really as horrid as the

neighbors claim. Really quite tolerable.”

“I’m certain they’re charming,” she

murmured.

“It’s a yes?”

She shook her head, and his

shoulders slumped a fraction. Perhaps

they would reach further downward if he

and Rosamund had had the pleasure of

exchanging words on another occasion

as well.

She really did need to have her own

season. The offerings in the county were

slim, a fact not helped when most of the

men of marriageable age had tromped

over to France.

There was only one intriguing man

here, and she’d reserved him for her

older sister, Fiona. Not that she’d told

either of them yet. Her lips turned up at

the thought, before Dunbar cast her a

reproachful glance, and she straightened

her lips into something she hoped

appeared more respectful.

“Er—” Dunbar’s Adam’s apple

moved downward. Apparently the man

was less accustomed to proposing to

women than Rosamund was used to

being proposed to.

“Please do rise, Mr. Dunbar.” She

gentled her tone.

Heavy footsteps pounded in the

corridor. The door swung open, and the

crystal handle slammed against the wall,

rattling the vases that perched on the

sideboards.

Dunbar scrambled from

Grandmother’s red oriental carpet, and

his face transformed into a puce color

better suited to textiles than skin.

“You’re alone! Unchaperoned!”

Fiona rushed in, and her gray skirts

swished against the furniture. Her auburn

hair was invariably untamed, and this

moment was no exception.

“I was,” Rosamund said.

Dunbar brushed his hands against the

creases of his rather unfashionable

breeches.

“Goodness!” Fiona hastened to the

sofa and settled into it. She directed her

gaze to him and pursed her lips with an

expertise befitting an oft-irritated

governess.

“It’s fine. Mr. Dunbar did not

compromise me.” Rosamund retained a

matter-of-fact tone. Dunbar’s eyes

shifted, as if contemplating claiming a

moment of passion had occurred, so she

would be beholden to him for the rest of

her life. She firmed her gaze. “Isn’t that

correct?”

“Er—yes,” Dunbar said finally,

regaining some grasp of ethics.

Men had a habit of proposing to her,

and Fiona had a habit of entering the

drawing room late after a guest was

called. Fiona seemed to find something

in her own room fascinating, but clearly

Rosamund’s status as sole sibling and

sole friend was not quite enough to

warrant her older sister’s confidence,

nor to explain the mud that appeared on

her clothes with startling frequency.

“Anyway,” Rosamund said. “I am

afraid I cannot marry without my sister

marrying first.”

“Oh—I see.” Dunbar tilted his head

to Fiona, as if pondering whether he

should dive forward in her direction,

ring still clutched in hand.

Rosamund cleared her throat before

the man could get any ideas. Fiona might

have abandoned her season, confining

herself, and by extension her sister, to

their estate in Yorkshire, but that did not

mean that she should leap to marry

someone who had intended to marry

another a mere three minutes previous.

Not that Dunbar was completely

devoid of merit. He might tend toward

awkwardness, but she shouldn’t fault

him for that. He was good and kind and

had made his late wife a satisfactory

husband.

“I suppose I should return if your

sister does see fit—”

Rosamund smiled. “How gracious.

But I would not have you wait for me.

Not when you are determined to give

your three precious daughters a mother.”

She smoothed the folds of her dress.

“You might consider calling on Miss

Mabel Hedley. You might find it of

interest that Miss Hedley has no other

sisters. And five brothers.”

“Right.” Dunbar straightened, and

his eyes gleamed with a determination

she was sure was rare for him. “That is

most interesting news. Most—er—

timely.”

Rosamund offered him an

understanding smile. “I feel certain that

you meant to see her all along.”

Certainly Rosamund had noticed the

frequency of Miss Hedley’s glances

toward Mr. Dunbar in the village church.

The man took his leave, and the door

slammed behind him as he made a hasty

exit.

Fiona frowned. “You take far too

much pleasure in that. I wish you would

stop using me as an excuse for why you

haven’t married.”

“The good prospects know better

than to propose to me.”

“Mm . . . hmm.”

“It’s true. And you should marry. Or

at least become engaged.”

“Nonsense,” Fiona said without

hesitation, her speed perhaps honed with

the frequency with which she’d given the

answer.

“You’ll change your mind,”

Rosamund said.

“You’ve been reading too many

novels.”

Rosamund grinned and leaned

forward. “Have you read the one about

the highwayman yet? I adored it.”

“I prefer to occupy myself

otherwise.”

“Perhaps you might prefer something

more intellectual.” Rosamund scrambled

for the pamphlet she’d picked up in

Harrogate.

She’d been searching for a moment

to pass this information on to her older

sister. This might not be ideal, but Fiona

would benefit from a more strategic

approach to finding a match.

Rosamund decided to interpret the

narrowing of Fiona’s eyes as interest

and slid the paper over to her. The

pamphlet was rather more creased than

she’d cared to admit, the edges rather

worn. She’d hidden the pamphlet in

many books, all the better to be able to

master the concepts.

Fiona pursed her lips together, as if

Rosamund had given her a personal love

letter from a certain crazed Corsican.

Rosamund attempted an innocent

shrug, and Fiona returned her glance to

the pamphlet, Matchmaking for

Wallflowers.

“This is manipulative,” Fiona

stammered, leafing through the pages of

rules and lists of most eligible matches.

“I’m sure no marriage could be the least

bit happy that had been preceded by such

a determined hunt.”

Rosamund sighed. She’d worried her

sister wouldn’t understand. “You would

find it appealing if the Romans had

written it down.”

“Worth studying, perhaps. Not worth

following.” Fiona scrunched the

pamphlet.

Rosamund leaped forward to rescue

the pages and smoothed down the

creases. “You need to read them again.

They work. And there’s even a list of

promising candidates in the back. The

Worthings, for instance. In fact, your

childhood friend is visiting Uncle

Seymour and Aunt Lavinia.”

“So Aunt Lavinia said.”

Rosamund clapped her hands

together. “Isn’t it most exciting?”

“Well, I suppose it might be nice to

see Marcus again…”

Rosamund beamed and returned the

pages to Fiona. “Babies owe their lives

to these rules.”

Fiona sighed and stuffed the

pamphlet within a book. “Rosamund.

Just how many matches have you made?”

“Six. And I’m only beginning.”

“And you think I should get

married?”

“I only desire your happiness.”

Rosamund shrugged and strode to her

writing table. She settled into the chair

from which Dunbar had interrupted her

and brushed her fingers against a glossy

invitation. “We both know what will

happen once Grandmother dies.”

Fiona’s smile wobbled, but she

raised her chin. “I’m the picture of

happiness.”

“And now you must excuse

yourself?”

“Yes,” Fiona said simply.

“Perhaps we might call on Aunt

Lavinia tomorrow,” Rosamund said

hopefully.

Fiona gave her a tight smile.

“Perhaps.”

Rosamund nodded. Uncle Seymour

and Aunt Lavinia often bemoaned

Fiona’s negative qualities, possessing no

qualms in doing so often, and no desire

to confine their criticism to private

moments.

She would rectify her sister’s

loneliness. If Fiona insisted on locking

herself away, Rosamund would find a

husband for her in Yorkshire. There was

no better man than Marcus Worthing,

sixth Earl of Somerville, to entice Fiona

with. Lord Somerville and her sister

needed to fall in love at Cloudbridge

Castle, and she would find an excuse to

draw him here.

Once Fiona and Somerville married,

her sister would be happy again, and

everything would be wonderful.

After all, the man was perfect—tall,

dark and handsome, conforming to every

stereotype of a young aristocrat, but with

a demeanor so charming one would

never fault him for it. Soon he’d realize

her sister’s perfection, and Rosamund

would be free to seek her own

happiness, her own happy ending, her

own earl.

Chapter Three

The sun had evidently exhausted itself

after its atypical showing the day before.

Dark clouds had retaken their customary

positions and were hurtling raindrops

from the heavens in full force. Marcus

had not ventured further than the library

and was once again toiling away.

At least he was in theory. Weighty

leather tomes adorned with foreboding

gold letters were piled on the nearby

table, and he was certain he bore an

expression of the utmost concentration

on his face, the kind which intimidated

most people.

Sir Seymour was not most people.

The baronet was extrapolating about his

wife’s plans to redecorate Cloudbridge

Castle after he inherited. Apparently it

would be sublime, and Marcus would

need to visit.

“I should reside there now,” Sir

Seymour mused. “But my mother is still

alive and is taking care of my two

nieces. I haven’t the heart to force them

out.”

“Indeed?” Marcus pulled his gaze

from an article.

“My one weakness is my

generosity.” Sir Seymour’s voice

boomed and echoed through the ancient

rafters above.

Marcus’s lips twitched. He rather

suspected his host’s reluctance to turn

out his mother and nieces stemmed from

an awareness that it would result in the

neighboring gentry’s condemnation.

A hesitant cough interrupted his

renewed musing on zoology. Quinn, Sir

Seymour’s butler, hovered over them.

“There’s a young lady asking to see you,

my lord. She’s in the drawing room.”

“A young lady?” Sir Seymour

scraped his chair against the wooden

floor, and Marcus jerked his head in the

baronet’s direction. The baronet puffed

out his chest and rose from his seat.

“Well, well.”

“My lord…” Quinn widened his

eyes and his lower lip dropped down,

before hastily resuming his customary

expression of bland indifference.

Well, almost resuming the

expression. Quinn shifted his legs. The

man seemed naturally prone to shyness,

a fact not alleviated by the bombastic

personality of his employer.

“Now listen here, Quinn. I hope

you’ve kept this all hush, hush.” The

baronet poked his head in the mirror and

straightened his wig.

Quinn’s eyebrows darted up.

Sir Seymour lowered his voice to a

whisper Marcus hadn’t been aware he’d

possessed. “Wouldn’t want the young

lady to happen upon my dear wife.

Wouldn’t work at all.”

Quinn’s face paled. “I’m afraid—”

Sir Seymour swung his gaze toward

Marcus. “Pay attention, young man.

Juggling is a feat every man must learn.

One day you’ll be married too.”

Usually Marcus would have retorted

that he had no desire to see such a state

befall him.

Usually he might profess some

gratitude that he had a few more years of

freedom before he’d take the marital

plunge all titled men must make.

Usually he might have chuckled at

the baronet’s comment, though he’d

never seen the need to take on multiple

women.

But instead an image of bronze hair

and sun-kissed skin flooded his mind,

tangling with the sensation of a soft

muslin gown. He mused over dark eyes

that sparkled and wide lips not afraid to

berate him.

“Her ladyship is speaking with her

now.”

Sir Seymour’s mouth gaped, and he

seemed to struggle to close it. “By

Hades, tell them I’m not here! And that I

don’t know that chit! Tell them she must

be mad. And—and—”

A pained expression descended upon

the butler, and the man interrupted Sir

Seymour’s stutters. “The young lady is

here to see Lord Somerville.”

Sir Seymour blinked.

“She asked for him expressly,”

Quinn continued, his voice gathering

force in the absence of any response

from the baronet except shock.

Marcus rose.

“Right. Right,” Sir Seymour said

finally, rubbing his hand through his hair.

“That’s much better. I mean—what

young lady could there be to see me?”

Quinn offered him a tight smile,

evidently interpreting Sir Seymour’s

question as rhetorical.

Sir Seymour emitted a painful laugh

and slurped down the rest of his brandy,

averting his eyes from either Quinn or

Marcus.

Marcus strode toward the door.

“Righty-ho,” his host said meekly.

“Enjoy.”

Marcus lowered his torso into a

slight bow, striving to retain a placid

expression on his face even as his heart

rate quickened.

Miss Rosamund Amberly.

It might be her! He hoped it was her.

Though he considered himself less

prone to anxieties over attire than the

dandies in his set, he did allow himself a

cursory glance of his reflection in one of

the gilded mirrors that lined the

baronet’s corridors before following

Quinn into the drawing room.

His dark hair curled, its

unfashionable length attributed to his

habit of spending more time in his

library than under the watch of

hairdressers. His cravat was rumpled,

and he smoothed the ivory knot. He

wished he’d chosen another claw

hammer coat, since this one struggled to

contain the broad width of his shoulders.

A pleasant alto voice resonated from

the drawing room, and he turned toward

the sound.

Goodness, the man was perfect.

His lips broadened, and she found

herself beaming back. His appearance

resembled more that of a professor than

one of the foppish men in her

Matchmaking for Wallflowers pamphlet,

and she was reminded that he was

lauded as one of England’s greatest

rising scientists.

Lord Somerville strolled into the

room and his Hessians clicked against

the polished wooden floor. Rosamund

observed the instant his dark eyes fell on

her and the manner in which his pupils

flared. Her stomach tightened as if his

very gaze were capable of pulling and

twisting every organ in her body.

“It’s you,” he murmured, and his

rich, baritone voice seemed to cause all

her nerve endings to tingle, as if they

were arching closer to him.

She shook her head. Such things

were impossible. Rosamund knew

enough about science to appreciate that.

Her governess had managed to teach her

some knowledge that extended past the

studies of poetry and art which she’d

preferred.

Attraction was an emotion invented

by poets and playwrights. All of

Rosamund’s suitors had happily married

other women, exchanging her easily for

other, equally appropriate women at her

encouragement.

Matchmaking was about suitability.

Her parents hadn’t had a love match.

They’d married at the urging of their

relatives. And yet no one could doubt

their happiness. Practicality had been

essential to their romance.

Rosamund was here for Fiona. She

mustn’t forget that.

No matter what sort of handsome

men with chiseled features and roguish

grins wandered around the forest. No

matter how heroic they acted. No matter

how much they resembled the heroes in

Rosamund’s favorite books.

“You remember her!” Aunt Lavinia

clapped her hands. “His lordship’s

wisdom is renowned throughout Great

Britain.”

The earl blinked.

“My niece looked quite different as a

child,” Aunt Lavinia continued. “Rather

smaller. But of course a man with your

intelligence—”

Somerville’s lips swung up, but he

kept his gaze on her. “I remember.”

Rosamund reached for her teacup,

hoping that the strange fluttering that

raced through her body was not visible

to him.

“I remember saving you,” he

continued, his voice still melodic, the

deep sounds still tugging at her heart.

“Is that what you called it?” Her lips

twitched at the man’s behavior

yesterday. No way would Uncle

Seymour’s bullets have reached her.

He shook his head solemnly.

“Oh I remember,” Aunt Lavinia

laughed.

Rosamund swiveled her head toward

her aunt. Surely Somerville wouldn’t

have told Aunt Lavinia about his

outrageous, if heroically inspired,

behavior.

“Don’t you remember?” Aunt

Lavinia laughed. “You were about four

and had followed your sister into the

creek, even though you didn’t know how

to swim. Somerville dragged you out

and carried you home.”

Rosamund tilted her head, and the

lace edges of her collar prickled her

neck.

Somerville chuckled. His laugh was

velvety and warm. “Miss Amberly

seems to have succeeded in banishing

that memory from her mind. I must

confess, I’d forgotten it as well. I

believe we were searching for speckled

toads. London, I’m afraid, is rather

limited in its variety of animals.”

“You should get my darling niece to

draw one for you,” Aunt Lavinia said.

“She is a most talented artist. And she

has even learned to swim.”

“Indeed?” Somerville’s eyes flared

again, and heat rushed through

Rosamund.

“Personally I consider swimming to

not belong in a lady’s repertoire,” Aunt

Lavinia sniffed. “Yet society’s rules are

rather laxer here, and her parents had a

desire to keep her alive.”

“I am most appreciative of her

continued presence,” Somerville

murmured.

“Anyway,” Rosamund hastened to

say. “I’m sorry to disturb you. Your book

on zoology was most fascinating, and I

am certain you are on your way to

creating another venerable work.”

Somerville blinked.

Aunt Lavinia chuckled. “I suspect the

earl is mostly accustomed to being

lauded by men.”

Heat prickled the back of

Rosamund’s neck, but she held her head

steady. “You should not underestimate us

Yorkshire women.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Somerville

said.

“Why, my sister is most intellectual,”

Rosamund said, remembering the person

whose skills she should be extolling.

“I have no doubt.” Somerville took a

seat in an armchair. He crossed his legs,

and Rosamund averted her gaze as his

breeches tightened and revealed

muscular thighs. Her collar definitely

seemed too tight.

But of course Somerville would

remember Fiona. The two had been

closer in age. When Rosamund had been

following the others around, needing to

be rescued and looked after, Fiona had

been an equal.

“I am happy we can become better

acquainted,” Somerville said, and his

lips spread into a wide smile more

suited to an angel than a scientist.

Rosamund’s heart rate escalated, and

she turned her head away lest she dwell

on the pleasing width of the man’s broad

shoulders.

“I would love to learn more about

the area. It’s been so long since I last

visited.”

She nodded, aware his mother’s

family had lived near her, though they

had since passed away.

“There’s something quite appealing

about the Yorkshire accent.” His eyes

sparkled, and Rosamund tightened her

fingers around Aunt Lavinia’s teacup, as

if that might lessen the warmth that

continued to prickle the back of her neck

at his every glance.

“And now is the perfect time for a

break,” he continued, at least seeming

oblivious to the effects the velvety sound

of his voice had on her.

“The poor earl has rather confined

himself in the library,” Aunt Lavinia

added. “I’m so happy the baronet has

been able to provide him with some

company.”

Somerville nodded, and she

wondered just how amiable he found her

uncle’s often brusque manner.

“I have the fondest memories of

playing with your sister, and I am happy

to become acquainted with you as well.”

Rosamund was grateful the earl did

not muse on his delight that Rosamund

had now mastered the art of speaking in

full sentences and had not appeared in a

grass-stained dress and floppy straw hat.

The man was unfailingly polite.

Gallant and courteous. He would make a

perfect fiancé. For Fiona. Naturally. Not

her, definitely not her.

She cleared her throat and averted

her eyes from her aunt’s far too startled

gaze.

After all, he’d just spoken

affectionately of his memories of Fiona.

Rosamund recalled falling into the pond

now. She’d been fond of following her

sister and him about, though they’d

considered her too little to allow her to

join them.

“You really should call on Fiona,”

she said.

He gave a polite nod. “Yes, perhaps

when I make more progress on my next

book. It would be nice to see her before

I depart.”

Her mind grasped for an excuse to

have him spend time with Fiona.

And then she found it. She managed

not to smile, but there was a reason

people came to her for matchmaking

advice. “I wanted to invite you to take

part in a play.”

Aunt Lavinia set down her teacup

with a clatter.

“A play?” Somerville repeated.

Rosamund nodded. “Oh yes, indeed.

It’s tradition. I so hope you can

participate.”

“This is news to me,” Aunt Lavinia

said.

“It’s one of the newer traditions,”

Rosamund added. “One must make one’s

own entertainment in the countryside,

when one doesn’t have access to

London’s festivities.”

“I suppose so,” Somerville said

slowly.

“And the play is most in want of a

hero. I do hope you might consider

joining us. My sister will be the

heroine.” She paused. “I am certain you

would be an ideal hero.”

“Oh?” Somerville’s cheeks

darkened, and this time Rosamund was

certain his pupils had enlarged.

“There are some people who may

find your facial structure appealing.”

She shrugged, as if to stress that she

absolutely did not belong in that

category. Thank goodness her voice did

not quiver.

“Indeed?”

“Er . . . yes, indeed.” Rosamund

plunged her eyelashes downward. No

need to linger on the delight her words

seemed to have given him.

“In that case I will be delighted to

offer my services,” Somerville said.

“Good.” Rosamund rose.

Somerville rose and swooped down

into an elegant bow that emphasized his

muscular body and the pleasing cuts of

his attire. It was all Rosamund could do

to remember to say farewell to her aunt

as she hastened from the manor house.

Chapter Four

“He agreed,” Rosamund said, settling

into a chair in the drawing room.

“Mmm . . . hm,” Fiona murmured,

not lifting her head from her book, The

Wild and Wondrous Romans.

Truly, her sister and the earl were

exceptionally well suited. Even if love

never struck them for some unfathomable

reason, it wouldn’t matter, for they’d

always be working.

Now she just needed to convince

Fiona to be the heroine in the play.

“Lord Somerville,” Rosamund said.

“Your childhood friend.”

Fiona raised her head. “Marcus?

What did he agree to?”

Rosamund inhaled. “How would you

like to be in a play?”

“No, thank you.” Fiona laughed and

scribbled something with her quill.

Rosamund succeeded in retaining a

smile. “I would love to put one on. Other

people do it.”

She may never have attended the

season, and she may not have traveled

farther than Harrogate, but everyone

adored the theatre. Though she had never

actually been invited to a party at a

country home, she did know that putting

on plays was a frequent practice. There

was no reason in the world why she

might not do the same thing.

“I am most in need of a heroine,”

Rosamund continued, and Fiona gazed

up. “You are very good at memorization,

and I—I would find it most enjoyable to

design the sets.”

“Right.” Fiona straightened. “I

suppose if you truly desire—”

“I think Somerville would make a

very suitable emperor. Or Roman god.”

Fiona blinked.

“Those dark features. Quite

appropriate for Olympus.”

Fiona raised her eyebrows.

“Rather Mediterranean,” Rosamund

stammered.

She didn’t like Somerville in such a

manner. She must remember that.

Fiona shrugged. “I haven’t seen him

since he was ten.”

No need to explain to Fiona that

Somerville would be Fiona’s future

husband and that she would see very

much of him in the future. News like that

had a tendency to make a woman

nervous.

“When he learned you would play

the heroine, he seemed quite pleased at

the opportunity of playing the hero.”

“That can’t be true.” Fiona tilted her

head. “Though we were once very good

friends.”

“Wonderful,” Rosamund squeaked,

recalling the earl’s flush and obvious

pleasure earlier today. “Tomorrow we’ll

start putting on the theatrical show.”

In the meantime, she had a play to

choose, a set to build, and costumes to

make. She smiled. She enjoyed being

busy, but she’d never been so grateful

for an opportunity to occupy herself.

The following day, rain pattered

against the stained-glass windows and

gusts of wind tore leaves down with

such force that Rosamund wondered

whether Somerville would decide to

postpone his visit.

She’d spent the day painting. Her

sister had informed her that the only

accurate attire for Roman gods would be

togas, and in the end they’d chosen a

medieval play with which they would

have less chance of scandalizing Uncle

Seymour and Aunt Lavinia.

A knock sounded on the door, and

Evans cleared his throat. “Lord

Somerville is here.”

Rosamund set down her sewing and

her gaze flickered to her hands. Dabs of

paint speckled her fingers, and she’d

chosen one of her plainest frocks.

She shook her head. Never mind

how she looked. The earl hadn’t come to

see her.

The man strode into the room.

Columns of gold buttons glimmered

from his woolen jacket, emphasizing the

width of his chest. He was all

Corinthian, and his cheeks were as pink

as if he’d stepped from the racket court.

He headed for her, and she just had time

to note his height, and the way he

managed to loom above her, before he

dipped into a bow.

Goodness, her sister was a fortunate

woman.

A ridiculous urge to trace the

elaborate curves of his snowy-white

cravat overcame her, and warmth rushed

to her cheeks. Rosamund started her

curtsy a second too late, and her heart

continued to hammer.

Well, his opinion of her was largely

irrelevant. She was the younger sister,

the sister-in-law to be, the person whom

Fiona and the earl might discuss together

for the rest of their lives.

“Hello.” He beamed at her. His eyes

were warm, brown mixed with gold

flecks, and Rosamund had to fight the

urge to smile back into them.

Goodness, she hadn’t imagined the

velvety sound of his voice. Not at all.

Underestimated it if anything. A shiver

coursed through her body, and she darted

her hand to her chest as if to check if it

was still beating. “I’ll find my sister.”

His eyes flickered with uncertainty,

and her cheeks heated. “Forgive me. Do

take a seat, my lord. I’ll get Cook to

prepare some tea and sweets. Or do you

prefer chocolate?”

For whatever reason, she found

herself babbling in his presence. She

turned abruptly. Cook could prepare

everything; this man deserved it all.

Her sister would be a lucky woman,

once she and Somerville realized their

supreme suitability.

Fiona entered the room, dropping

into an appropriately-timed curtsy.

Somerville gave her a deep bow, and

something in Rosamund’s heart panged.

Her older sister seemed at ease with

him, perhaps a fact generated by all the

time they’d spent playing together in the

mud. Rosamund gripped onto her

armrests. She’d never toppled from a

chair before, but in the presence of Lord

Somerville’s courtship of her sister, the

barriers seemed of some use.

“How are you, Miss Amberly?” The

earl’s voice continued to be warm and

courteous.

Fiona dipped her head, and the two

were soon having a passionate

discussion of the weather and the

possibility of procuring more snow than

the year previous. The farmers had noted

a profusion of red berries nestled in the

hedges, something which tended to be

followed by a profusion of snow. Fiona

and Somerville determined that it would

be best to wait to see what happened and

mused about the merits of tracking the

link between the red berries and snow,

and how they might best accomplish the

necessary measurements and

calculations.

Rosamund had been wrong. If the

two married, they would never want for

conversation.

Fiona’s and Somerville’s banter

didn’t manage to fill her with quite as

much happiness as she’d anticipated.

Rosamund’s chest tightened, and she

strove to remind herself that this was

exactly what she’d desired.

No matter. This was about Fiona, not

herself.

Not that the conversation seemed

particularly romantic. Somerville was

recounting his skills in catching frogs as

a child, and Fiona was remarking on her

past habit of stuffing them in her hat, all

the better to startle her aunt and uncle.

“Now tell me about this play.”

Somerville directed his attention to

Rosamund. “Did you write it?”

She smiled. “I’m no writer. Really—

Fiona is the gifted one of us.”

And it was true. Fiona had excelled

in the lessons their governess had

assigned, memorizing details with little

effort. Rosamund had preferred running

about outside, exploring every valley,

striving to copy the curve of every

flower with her watercolors.

“We’ve chosen one of Loretta Van

Lochen’s plays,” Fiona said.

“Ah,” Somerville said. “I must

confess an unfamiliarity with that

scribe.”

Rosamund recounted the plot, the

oft-tragic tale of a beautiful young

Frenchwoman.

“Rather like The Mysteries of

Udolpho.”

“We’ve shortened the cast,” Fiona

said.

“In addition,” Rosamund said, “the

story is not set in the Apennines and

Pyrenees. It is set entirely in the Alps.”

Somerville nodded gravely. “Then it

is quite different indeed.”

Rosamund’s lips twitched. “I would

not have needed to use as much white

paint, were it set elsewhere.”

Somerville’s gaze dropped to her

still-stained hands.

Fiona smiled. “My sister is an

excellent artist.”

“Your aunt mentioned,” Somerville

said.

Rosamund shrugged. “I am grateful

to live in Yorkshire. The Dales are

beautiful.”

Fiona laughed. “Rosamund finds

beauty in everything. Even insects and

reptiles.”

“Indeed?”

“The variety of colors and the novel

forms are intriguing,” Rosamund said,

conscious that her skin likely verged on

a pink shade.

Somerville smiled. “I’ve never

heard a lady say that before. I agree

completely.”

“You’ve rather made a name of

yourself for your study of species,”

Fiona said.

“Perhaps.” Somerville’s gaze

continued to rest on Rosamund. “You are

fortunate to live in this area.”

“Oh, I do adore it,” Rosamund

replied.

“You are not in a rush to visit

London?”

Her smile wobbled. She had

dreamed of life in the large city. Perhaps

she might visit after her sister married.

Fiona had cut her own season short, and

she did not speak highly of the city. “I

must confess to some curiosity, but I am

content with my family.”

Marcus nodded solemnly. “That is

admirable. You are fortunate to be so

close to them. I have always had a

fondness for your sister and

grandmother.”

She nodded, and a lump in her throat

thickened.

“I must show you some of her work.”

Fiona clapped her hands. “My sister is

skilled with oils as well as watercolors.

I was quite impressed with her portrait

of me.”

“I would be delighted to see that.”

Somerville brightened as they departed

the room.

Rosamund followed them into the

corridor, observing as Fiona showed

Somerville various paintings.

Fiona gestured to her. “Come, dear.”

Rosamund joined them, though

Somerville’s eyes did not turn to her.

They remained fixed on her sister’s

portrait, and the earl appeared

fascinated. His gaze seemed to roam

over each curve of Fiona’s face. “How

beautiful.”

“You’ve done her hair remarkably

well.” Finally, Somerville turned to her,

and even though his cheeks were flushed

from seeing Fiona in all her finery,

Rosamund still shivered.

“Th-thank you,” she stammered.

“The detail on these curls. It must

have been quite difficult.” Somerville

returned his glance to the painting. “And

the dress. It appears almost satin-like.

Her skin is luminous. You’ve captured

her freckles too. So very marvelous.”

Rosamund reminded herself that this

was just what she’d longed for. “My

sister is most beautiful.”

Somerville’s eyes roamed the

crisscrossings of oil paint. “Yes,

indeed.”

Rosamund swallowed hard.

Fiona had laughed and jested with

Somerville today, even if Rosamund

hadn’t convinced her sister she should

abandon her half-mourning clothes. That

would happen later. The main thing was

that her sister was happy.

“Shall we begin practicing?” Fiona

asked.

“Certainly.” Somerville smiled.

This was everything Rosamund had

hoped for, but somehow the happiness

she should have felt, the happiness she

knew she must be experiencing, was not

as pleasant as she’d envisioned.

Chapter Five

Marcus prided himself on knowing his

mind. It was what had sustained him

while studying science, even when his

peers threw themselves into frequenting

gaming halls and indulging in all manner

of vices.

He knew two things, each fact as

clear as the rules of mathematics:

1.) He abhorred acting and dreaded

the eventual performance before the

sisters’ relatives.

2.) He was determined to marry

Miss Rosamund Amberly.

They’d spent every day together,

laughing and chatting. Rosamund would

paint, and Marcus and Fiona would

rehearse their lines. Sometimes the

sisters would ply him with questions

about his scientific research. Both

seemed genuinely interested in his

studies of animals, and he’d convinced

Rosamund to show him her sketchbook,

which was every bit as wondrous as

he’d imagined.

Rosamund was perfect, completely

and utterly. In his dreams they would

wander the Dales together. Perhaps

sometimes they would venture to the

Moors. And since the war had finally

ended, they might even travel to the

continent. He would work on

categorizing the various species, and she

would draw.

Unfortunately, recently it was

becoming dashed difficult to find the

chit. Most days the women’s

grandmother chaperoned when he

rehearsed his lines with the elder Miss

Amberly. The only thing that made

Rosamund’s absence bearable was that

she did not then need to witness him

transforming into a stammering mess in

her presence as his affection had grown.

Certainly when she’d last attended,

Rosamund had seemed to find his acting

most unpleasant. Even the scene in

which he’d rescued Fiona, delivering a

lengthy soliloquy on her character’s

beauty and charm, had seemed only to

cause Rosamund’s face to pale and spur

her to abandon the make-shift stage.

Marcus sighed.

And yet, despite the woman’s

obvious dislike of his acting abilities

and likely regret of asking him to

perform the lead, every moment they’d

spent together only confirmed the extent

of his emotions toward her.

She’d produced the most marvelous

paintings: craggy, snow-covered peaks

sparkling beneath a macabre sky; rolling

meadows abounding with pastel-colored

flowers and beams of golden light; rainy

forests comprised of a reduced palette of

gray shades, nonetheless beautiful;

intricate paintings of the dark castle

interior from which he would rescue

Angélique, the heroine.

He’d devoted rather less time to

researching species than he’d planned

on, he’d humiliated himself more than he

ever had, and yet, despite it all, he’d

never felt more alive. Stepping into

Cloudbridge Castle filled him with

delight, and when he recited the poetic

lines lauding the play’s heroine, it was

Rosamund whom he imagined saying

them to.

He’d resolved to make his intentions

clear today. There was no point in

delaying the inevitable, not when he

might be experiencing a joyful betrothal

and an even more joyful marriage.

Marcus found Rosamund on the

balcony. She’d placed an easel before

her, and her brow was furrowed as she

gazed before her, paintbrush in hand.

The sky had erupted into a sea of

colors. The long clouds were as blue as

waves, but the rosy color that

surrounded them, highlighting each

ruffle, was bright pink, a shade more

pretty and perfect than anything Marcus

had ever seen.

“Rosamund.”

She swung her head toward him,

shock showing in her eyes.

He sighed. “Miss Amberly.”

He’d long called her Rosamund in

his mind, had called her that as a child,

but she was accustomed to more

formality with him now.

He despised that. He couldn’t wait

until they were betrothed.

She had to say yes. Had to.

Rosamund’s lips parted and her

white teeth pressed against her bottom

lip. Marcus was struck by the succulence

of that crimson lip, just as he was struck

by the faint color on her high cheekbones

and the amusing manner in which her

nose arched up. Her full chest moved in

a pleasing manner, and Marcus darted

his gaze away.

The sudden warmth on the back of

his neck and face indicated his own skin

might be every bit as rosy as the clouds.

And he didn’t have the excuse of

blaming a glowing sun.

“It’s beautiful,” he said, the words

too weak for all the emotion he now felt.

She smiled. “Yes.”

He beamed. Of course she would

understand. Fiona was right: Rosamund

saw beauty in everything. Her life

seemed dedicated to making all around

her happy. She was patient with

everyone, even Sir Seymour and his

wife.

“My sister is inside,” Rosamund

said.

“I know.” He strode nearer her,

noticing the manner in which the sunlight

flickered over the nape of her neck.

The rosy pink on the clouds turned to

a more sophisticated lavender as the sun

darted farther toward the horizon.

“Oh.” Her voice wobbled.

“I was enjoying the view,” Marcus

said.

Rosamund nodded. “How do you

like Yorkshire?”

“It’s wonderful,” his voice rumbled.

“And that sky is prettier than any ocean.”

“Oh?”

“I traveled to America once with my

half-brother, but this is prettier than the

Atlantic.” He turned to her. “I’ve grown

to admire you very much. You see the

beauty in things. You show it to others.”

“How did you find the ocean?” Her

voice sounded an octave higher than

normal, and her cheeks pinkened.

He smiled. “There is some pleasure

in not being at sea, and in enjoying a

world that doesn’t tip and dip without a

moment’s notice.”

He swallowed hard. The answer

was one he was practiced in giving to

the oft-simpering ladies who gathered

the courage to speak with him after

sufficient encouraging looks from their

marriage-minded mamas. When he spoke

with Rosamund, he was conscious of a

strange swelling of his tongue and heat

in his collar that could not be attributed

to the late summer air, and he realized

that this world too was dipping and

swirling with a greater force than any he

had experienced on any boat, in any

storm.

He gripped the stone railing of the

balcony. His eyes focused on the dark

green Dales, but it was not the curve of

their jagged peaks he was thinking of.

“I would like to marry,” he said,

surprised how quickly the words fell

from his mouth.

He tilted his head toward her,

worried at her response.

Instead her lips turned upward into a

smile, and warmth spread through him,

unfurling through every vein and nerve.

“Have a family,” he continued.

“I would like that as well,” she said

finally.

Lord, she was so calm. So

magnificent.

“My darling.” His voice roughened.

He didn’t have a ring yet. That could

wait. He would give her one. The best.

She deserved it all. Soon she would be

his future countess.

He grasped her hands and pulled her

from her seat. Her eyes widened, and he

only had a moment to see how the warm

brown color deepened before he leaned

his face toward hers. His lips sought

hers, tasting sweetness and softness and

all things sublime.

Finally, Rosamund broke their kiss,

and his heart pounded, waiting for her

sweet soprano voice to speak.

Instead pain seared his cheek as if

someone had slapped him. Confusion

filled him, and he swung his eyes open.

It had to be her. The slap had to have

come from her. Even though the thought

was ridiculous. Because—they had just

become engaged. He loved her. Adored

her.

But there was no French soldier

staring at him, ranting about roast beef,

which for some reason was one of the

insults they seemed proudest of issuing.

Only Rosamund.

Her eyes were wide and her breaths

rapid, but it wasn’t desire that flickered

over her face.

Ice traveled through his spine and

each muscle stiffened. He moved

backward, and his feet felt large and

stiff, as if he were trying to maneuver

blocks of lead.

This wasn’t supposed to happen.

He peered at her again, but there was

no sign of affection from his intended

future wife.

“You kissed me,” she said.

“Yes.”

They had been, after all, engaged.

Hadn’t they been?

“But what of my sister?”

Rosamund’s voice shook.

“Fiona?” He blinked.

“You can’t just go around kissing

women. You can’t speak of families and

futures and then kiss women.”

“But—”

“Poor Fiona.” A deep flush darkened

Rosamund’s cheeks.

“I thought—”

“What could you possibly think?

What excuse could you possibly have?”

Marcus drew in a painful breath. The

world lacked the wonder he’d ascribed

to it.

The kiss had burned her lips, seared

her soul, swept her to heavenly heights

—and then she’d remembered.

A breeze ruffled Marcus’s hair and

fluttered her gown, but the gust may as

well have been a tornado. Her heart

struggled in her chest, knowing only that

it needed to beat forcefully, but unsure of

the rhythm.

She fought the urge to slide her hand

over Marcus’s woolen coat and pull him

back toward her.

She’d been swept up into a moment

of unfathomable bliss. Her body had

rejoiced at the closeness with Marcus,

memorized the strokes of his tongue and

the firm fingers that had clutched her

toward him.

Those hands were nowhere near her

now. They were clasped at Marcus’s

side, and his eyes—Lord, the eyes that

had only just been sparkling at her—

were cold.

“My sister’s inside. My

grandmother, and—” She stumbled on

her words. Her tongue was thick, and

her heart hadn’t halted its furious

hammering.

“Oh.” The stony expression on his

face shifted. “You’re worried about

being improper.”

“I—”

“Because everything is different

now.” He inhaled, and added, “My

darling.”

She blinked. The words were ones

she’d been afraid to dream of, and part

of her wanted to succumb to the urge to

return Marcus’s smile.

But this wasn’t the plan. She’d had a

plan. A good one. One that would make

her sister happy. “You’re not—”

He tilted his head. “Not?”

She slumped her shoulders. “You’re

supposed to be intelligent.”

“And I’m not?”

“You kissed me!” Rosamund

stammered. “Of course not.”

“And kissing you excludes all

intelligence?” Somerville’s voice

softened.

She pulled away. “My sister.”

“She does not need to be present at

this moment.”

“But she should know!”

“That you make me burn?” His

breath was hot against her ear, and her

neck warmed. Energy spread through

her, and she had a crazy desire to loop

her arms around his neck and never open

the door to the rest of the world again.

Rosamund swallowed hard. “You

are to marry my sister.”

“Nonsense, my darling.”

The tender word sliced through her.

“I’m not—that.”

His eyes widened.

“I’m nothing to you,” Rosamund

continued. “Nothing at all.”

“I just proposed. You accepted—

didn’t you?” His voice wobbled, and his

face, the one that radiated calm and

strength flickered uncertainty.

She swooped her eyelashes down,

and her heartbeat quickened. She

couldn’t—she couldn’t look at the man

when he told her that. Had he been

proposing when he’d spoken of building

a future family? Perhaps. “I—I didn’t

know that.”

His lips twitched, and Lord, even

though she abhorred him right now for

breaking her sister’s heart, as he

inevitably would, warmth still managed

to trickle through her.

Marriage.

“What do you say, Rosamund?” He

grasped her hands in his. Though he

fixed a smile on her, his hands trembled,

the slight wobble managing to lurch her

heart. “Make me the happiest man in the

world.”

The temptation to accept, to fling

herself into his arms, ratcheted through

her body.

This man was everything.

“I love you, Rosamund,” Marcus

continued.

Her chest constricted. He loved her?

She’d idealized him when she was a

child, and she adored his company. She

respected him. Admired him. But love—

that was something that would be

reserved for her future husband. That

was something he should be reserving

for Fiona.

Her tongue arched as if to say the

words. His eyes beseeched her, and the

urge to reassure him strengthened.

And yet—she thought of Fiona,

memorizing lines and rehearsing. Her

sister had always been there for her,

strong and caring even after their parents

had died in a carriage accident. Perhaps

Fiona didn’t seem smitten, perhaps she

didn’t seem to mind whether she married

or not, but someday Grandmother would

die, someday Fiona would have no

options, and even if Fiona didn’t seem to

care about her future happiness,

Rosamund did.

She could never take the man

reserved for Fiona. “I can never marry

you.”

“But—”

“You were meant for my sister.”

“I don’t understand.” His voice was

hoarse.

“That’s why you’re here. That’s why

you’ve been rehearsing.”

“I’m here because you invited me.”

“Of course. You’re perfect!”

His cheeks pinkened, and she

hastened to add, “For my sister!”

“I see.” Marcus’s face shifted from

confusion to stoniness. The man who

stood before her was a stranger. “Then

everything was a farce. I misunderstood.

Forgive me.”

Her chest tightened. “But you were

best friends. She’ll make you happy, and

—”

The plan had been good. Perfect.

“I will return to London

immediately.” His features stiffened and

his voice was again formal, more suited

for relaying facts on distinctions

between species than to speaking to a

silly girl like herself.

He departed the balcony, and

Rosamund’s heart lurched. She picked

up her paintbrush, but the rose and

lavender stripes that had billowed over

the sky had disappeared. The gray sky

darkened, and an icy wind swept against

her.

Chapter Six

Marcus stormed through the adjoining

hallway and corridor. China rattled,

bouncing in the glass cabinets, and the

ancient castle floorboards creaked

beneath him.

He’d thought Rosamund returned his

affections. It had all been nonsense.

Fancies from an overactive imagination

he should have quelled.

He steeled his jaw. Rosamund was

as scheming as any lady of the ton. She

was—

“Good evening, Marcus,” Fiona

chirped.

He didn’t halt his pace. Politeness

could be for another time. Or—

preferably, never.

He didn’t have to stay in Yorkshire.

He could claim some massively

important engagement and be off to

London at once.

“Marcus Harold Ignatius Lesley

Worthing.” Fiona’s crisp voice followed

him.

Blast.

He swung his head toward her, not

knowing when they would next meet.

“What?”

“Surely you’re not escaping when

we have the performance tonight?”

Fiona laughed, and he tried to echo her

sound.

No need for everyone to know his

pain.

Fiona’s face sobered.

Clearly his laugh had sounded bitter.

Perhaps he hadn’t honed his ability

in mimicking carefreeness. The play

tended toward melodrama, and he’d

focused his little acting skills on

expressing sorrow and anger rather than

calmness.

“Marcus.” Fiona’s voice softened

and emanated kindness.

Which didn’t make the situation

better. Lord, she knew.

He shifted his legs and pondered that

he’d failed to give them sufficient credit

for their ability to lift him up

consistently for his lifetime.

“She said no?” Fiona asked.

He nodded and then steeled his jaw,

because he really, really didn’t need to

contemplate the memory of Rosamund’s

refusal.

They were supposed to be happy

now. Celebrating. He was supposed to

be twirling her about the castle as they

planned their lives.

No sound of giggles and ecstatic

exclamation filled the corridor; only an

uncomfortable stillness pervaded.

“I’m sorry, Marcus.”

The words were simple, but they

both knew nothing could alleviate his

pain. His nostrils flared. The faint scent

of lavender that permeated the room, the

preferred fragrance of Mrs. Amberly,

had conjured up a home-life he’d never

had, one he’d desired to possess.

Some things were not to be.

Unfortunately, happiness seemed

reserved for others.

“It seems Miss Rosamund Amberly’s

interest in me was purely platonic.

Please—please apologize again for me,

for my ungentlemanly behavior.”

Those seconds of bliss had seemed

to last a lifetime, and now they seemed

to have been a lifetime ago.

The only thing he knew was that he

loved Rosamund. That fact hadn’t been

concocted, even if he hadn’t planned on

loving anyone yet. At some point in his

thirties he’d imagined he would succumb

to a matchmaking mama and marry some

debutante from a satisfactory family who

would prove to be an equally

enthusiastic mother to his future heir and

spares. He certainly hadn’t planned on

feeling any of this.

Rosamund was the youngest child of

a now-dead county squire. She would be

reliant on her uncle once her

grandmother passed away. The ton

would say she should be overjoyed at

the prospect of marrying him. He hadn’t

contemplated that she would reject his

proposal.

Moreover, she’d easily confessed

that she’d attempted to manipulate his

affection, matching him with her sister,

as if unaware of any wrongdoing.

“I’m leaving,” he said. “Please give

my greetings to your Grandmother.”

He didn’t mention Rosamund. Her

name was too painful to utter again.

“I’m sure there must have been some

misunderstanding.”

“Your sister was clear that the only

misunderstanding was on my part.”

“Perhaps if you stay—”

“No.”

Fiona fiddled with her brooch and

her face transformed into an expression

of uncharacteristic uncertainty. Finally,

she inhaled. “Perhaps you won’t stay for

my sister, but might you stay for me?”

“Why?” He tilted his head,

scrutinizing Fiona.

Lord, was she going to suggest

herself as suitable wife material? They

were childhood friends, for goodness’

sake. He was still unaccustomed to not

seeing her with muddied attire.

Though perhaps—perhaps

Rosamund was right. Perhaps Fiona

would be a suitable wife for him. They

conversed easily, and she’d confided in

him that she was working on an

interesting project of her own. She

would understand his commitment to

zoology, and he would be supportive of

her work. There was a certain

attractiveness in her auburn hair and

green eyes. Her intelligence and

kindness made her more than suitable to

be a wife and mother.

Except she wasn’t Rosamund. He

didn’t simply want to marry a friend,

even a good one. He desired Rosamund,

and marriage to her sister was

unthinkable.

He braced himself for what Fiona

would say.

“It’s just…” Fiona tossed her head,

and an auburn lock fell from her chignon.

“I’m so fond of acting.”

His shoulders slumped with relief,

and he tilted his head. “Your fondness

for complaining about the pastime would

suggest otherwise.”

“I would hate to not do the

performance after so much work.”

Marcus sighed. They had worked

hard. And he was fond of Fiona, even if

his appreciation did not extend to a

desire to marry her. “If you feel my

presence will not shock your sister…”

“Please,” Fiona repeated. “Stay a

few more hours. We have guests arriving

for the performance.”

The prospect of delaying his

departure seemed more tempting than it

should have. Sir Seymour would be

suspicious if he left too hastily. Marcus

had some sense of decorum. And worst

of all, the prospect of seeing Rosamund,

even after she’d shattered his dreams,

still enticed him. “Fine.”

“Thank you!” Fiona clapped her

hands together.

“But I will return back to Sir

Seymour’s now to prepare for my

departure, which will be directly after

the performance.”

Chapter Seven

Marcus’s footsteps crunched over the

cobblestones and his voice murmured

below. Likely he was asking the groom

for his horse, but her heart still flitted in

her chest, the velvety sound of his tenor

affecting her improperly.

She’d never see him again.

Had she been too quick to reject

him? She shook her head.

Fiona came first. Always.

Now she had to tell her sister that

her childhood friend, the man she’d been

laughing with, would return to London.

She hadn’t told Fiona of the plan, but the

affinity between the two was apparent. If

Fiona had ever hoped for Percival—and

she couldn’t have been immune to his

many charms—she would be devastated.

And Rosamund would be the cause

of her sister’s distress.

Fiona stepped through the door. “We

need to speak, my dear.”

“Yes,” Rosamund stammered. “Lord

Somerville. He’s not what I thought.”

Fiona raised her eyebrows.

Rosamund swallowed hard. “He

doesn’t want to marry you.”

Fiona’s eyes widened, and

Rosamund hated to see the shock

reflected in them.

This must be terrible for her poor

sister. “I’m sorry.”

The words could be no consolation

for Fiona. Rosamund understood that.

Fiona blinked. “I have no desire to

marry him either.”

“You don’t?”

“No,” Fiona repeated. “Now come

inside.”

“But he’s—”

“Perfect?” Fiona’s eyebrows arched

upward, and heat flooded Rosamund’s

cheeks, the night air not cool enough.

“But—” Rosamund followed her

sister into the drawing room. The

floorboards creaked beneath her ever-

quickening strides. Energy coursed

through her, but there was nowhere she

could go, nothing she could do to rectify

this.

She’d rejected him for Fiona’s sake.

But Fiona lacked the signs of

heartbrokenness Rosamund was certain

she should have. She scrutinized her

sister for symptoms of irreparable

distress. “Do you feel quite well?”

“I’m always the epitome of good

health.”

“Right.” Rosamund pressed a

clammy hand over her brow. “But you

must adore him. How could you not?”

“Were you trying to match Marcus

and me together?” Fiona asked, her

voice stern.

“P-perhaps.”

“But I have no desire for a husband.

Besides, he was my childhood best

friend.” Fiona’s nose crinkled.

Rosamund dropped onto a chair and

slumped against the decorative gilded

back, no matter that her governess had

told her that proper ladies sat straight.

“Grandmother will die, and then

we’ll both need to leave, and—”

Rosamund swallowed. “You would be

happy with him.”

“Marcus is a good man,” Fiona said.

“But the mere fact that we can converse

easily is not enough to indicate love.”

“Oh.” Rosamund flickered her eyes

down.

“You are far too stubborn,” Fiona

said. “I’ve told you before that I possess

no desire to marry. You cannot feign

ignorance.”

Rosamund frowned. “I thought you

didn’t mean it.”

“You thought you knew me better

than I did myself.” Fiona frowned. “You

should have been considering your own

desires.”

“But I want to help you!”

“And everyone else.” Fiona tilted

her head. “You are very sweet. But I am

content with my books, my research—”

“What research?” Rosamund

interrupted. “You never share anything

with me.”

“I’m an archaeologist,” Fiona

stammered. “I think there’s a Roman

palace buried underneath the apple

orchard. I’ve been finding the most

intriguing things—it’s thrilling.”

“You should have told me.”

Fiona sighed. “I wanted to be sure.

And—maybe I wanted something that

would be just my own.”

“Oh.”

“I am content here,” Fiona said. “I

want to stay as long as I can. This is my

life, and that is my choice.”

Rosamund rubbed a loose strand of

hair behind her ear. “Then you’re really

not in love with Marcus?”

She knew the answer. Had known it

all along, but had been too stubborn to

see it.

“I think you made a mistake, my

dear.”

Rosamund occupied herself with

blinking, hoping her sister did not notice

the uncharacteristically furious manner.

“You need to speak with him,” Fiona

said.

Tears stung Rosamund’s eyes. She

couldn’t speak with him again. There

would be no more lengthy afternoons

with him and Fiona. There would be no

more discussions of the flora and fauna

prevalent in the Dales. There would be

no more—Marcus.

“He’s returning to London.” This

time she couldn’t mask the sob that

soared in her throat from sounding, and

she grabbed her handkerchief. The lace

edges and embroidered birds seemed

impossibly indulgent.

“Not without doing the

performance.”

Rosamund dabbed the tears that slid

down her cheeks. “He said he would

return to London immediately.”

“And he will return later tonight,”

Fiona said, her voice more serious.

“He’s doing this as a favor. I convinced

him of my deep desire to act.”

“Oh.” Rosamund flickered her eyes

downward.

Perhaps Marcus would be there, but

that didn’t mean that they would be able

to speak. What could she say? That she

regretted her refusal? Rosamund may

never have had a formal entry into

society, but she was well aware that

propriety had certain rules even she

could not break.

Fiona tilted her head. “I do confess,

that after further thought, I may not be

feeling as well as I said.”

Branches scraped the sides of the

coach, as if seeking to halt Marcus’s

journey to Cloudbridge Castle.

No good would come of returning to

the site of his greatest disappointment. If

only Fiona hadn’t been intent on

performing.

Sir Seymour and Lady Amberly sat

opposite him, clothed in finery befitting

a visit to Almack’s. Even their son,

Cecil, a man near Marcus’s age, had

been dragged from London. Marcus

suspected that Cecil’s mother would be

favorable to a match between her son

and one of the sisters, if her non-stop

laudations of the sisters’ beauty and

charisma was any indication. Even Sir

Seymour refrained from his more

sarcastic comments.

“A private performance,” Sir

Seymour said merrily. “Witnessing an

earl acting. Who else has had that

pleasure?”

“No one,” Marcus said.

Thankfully. He still abhorred the

thought of acting.

“Ah, I suppose not,” Sir Seymour

said. “Cecil, you are witnessing a great

honor. Most actors are not noblemen.

Think of the performance you will

witness! Even the king himself would be

jealous of us.”

“There will never be another

occasion,” Marcus said. When Sir

Seymour beamed, he added, “I would

not want your expectations to be overly

high, as flattered as I am. I assure you I

have no talent—”

“No talent? You are an aristocrat.

Have no fear. I will share the story of

your acting debut with all the members

of the ton.” Sir Seymour’s eyelids

flickered down and his lips stretched

into a wide smile. “They will be

consumed with the most utterly agonizing

envy.”

“You overestimate my strengths.”

“What nonsense,” Sir Seymour said.

“I’m sure you even know your lines!”

“Naturally.”

“It’s a pity you are not acting with

Rosamund. She always struck me as the

more sensible Amberly sister,” Sir

Seymour said.

“Though they are both not without

charms,” his wife said hastily, directing

a gaze at Cecil.

Marcus glanced at his hosts’ son,

wondering whether he might be the

future husband of one of the sisters. The

man seemed entirely uninterested, and

Marcus found his shoulders inexplicably

relaxing.

“Miss Rosamund Amberly was

deeply involved in the set design

process,” Marcus said.

“Set design?” Sir Seymour’s burly

eyebrows soared upward. “Well, well.

I’m sure that’s not proper. Watercolors

are a much more feminine occupation.”

“Perhaps she used watercolors,”

Lady Amberly said. “Did she?”

“Oil paint,” Marcus said. “Most

impressive.”

“I must warn her of the importance

of maintaining her femininity,” Sir

Seymour said. “Oil paints are a much

more masculine pursuit. The thicker

brush might lead to muscles.”

Marcus blinked. “I much admire her

skill.”

“Indeed,” Sir Seymour said as the

carriage slowed. “I suppose even

aristocrats must be allowed their

eccentricities. I am of course quite

familiar with the mysterious ways of the

ton.”

“I am most looking forward to the

performance,” Cecil said, his gaze

lingering on Marcus. “Loretta Van

Lochen’s plays are always so romantic.”

Marcus flashed him a tight smile,

desperately wishing he would not be

spending the next two hours asserting

amorous affections.

He inhaled. Marcus would do the

performance, satisfy Fiona’s newfound

passion for acting, and then he would

leave for London, returning to the place

where men did not shoot in the open,

trees were carefully planted and

maintained, and young ladies did not go

flitting about, confusing his heart.

The carriage halted, and Marcus

stepped from the coach onto the

cobblestones. Cold wind swept around

him and the first fallen leaves swirled

around his legs. The medieval towers

soared into the inky sky, and Marcus

squared his shoulders as he entered the

castle.

Candles flickered from cast-iron

sconces and shadows swerved and

darted over the stone walls, as if

realizing the festivity of the occasion. A

golden hue imbued the once familiar

objects.

“My dear Lord Somerville.” Mrs.

Amberly stretched her hands to him, her

skin crinkling around her eyes. “My

granddaughters tell me you are returning

to London tonight.”

“Indeed.”

“I was unaware that the work of a

zoologist was so demanding. But I hope

you will be back to see us soon.”

“I’m sure he will.” Sir Seymour

slapped Marcus on the back. “One

doesn’t visit Yorkshire without falling in

love with everything in it.”

“My granddaughters will certainly

miss you,” Mrs. Amberly said.

Marcus’s smile tightened. He wished

that were true. Neither Rosamund nor

Fiona were about. Clearly they were

eager for his absence.

He’d been far too forward. She

hadn’t anticipated his proposal at all

because the thought of marrying him was

something so removed from her dreams.

He’d acted impulsively when he’d first

seen her, trying to rescue her. But he

wasn’t her hero. He hadn’t been then,

and he certainly wasn’t now.

The servants had set out punch and

refreshments. Sir Seymour’s family

charged in the direction of the cook’s

temptations and mingled with other

guests. Marcus’s chest constricted. He’d

been so focused on Rosamund that he’d

forgotten he’d be spending the next hours

humiliating himself before an audience

of the local gentry.

Never mind.

Marcus marched into the adjoining

room reserved as a dressing room for

him. The hero of the play was a knight,

so he slid on chainmail and shiny armor.

He shoved his helmet over his head,

destroying his coiffure. A crimson plume

draped from his helmet and beaconed the

absurdity of his attire.

He paced the room, and the

uncomfortable metal plates clanged with

his every move. There was a reason

armor belonged to the past, along with

other ridiculous notions such as chivalry,

colossal churches, and constant battle.

Two hours. That’s how long the play

would take, and then he would return to

London and live the normal sort of life

that did not entail adorning himself in

ridiculous materials and pretending to be

a romantic hero, when everyone knew

that sort of person existed only in

medieval songs. Marriage was

something manufactured, arranged by

women’s mothers and sisters.

He strove to tell himself it would be

good to return to London. At least there

he understood the rules.

“The performance, my lord.” Evans

interrupted his musings.

“Miss Amberly is on stage?”

“Everyone is waiting.”

Marcus blinked. The man hadn’t

answered his question. He hadn’t seen

Fiona all night. She’d better be ready.

The sooner he finished this bloody thing,

the sooner he could return.

Blasted butlers and their overly-

developed sense of decorum.

Marcus headed through the door,

managing to only cringe slightly as the

armor clanged and the outrageously-

sized plume brushed against the ceiling’s

wooden beams.

The whole first act centered on him

rescuing Angélique, Fiona’s character,

from the crumbling castle the unseen

villain had trapped her in.

With a sigh he picked up a lance and

charged onto the stage, conscious of the

audience observing him.

He refused to ponder the beauty of

the painted backdrops.

He refused to ponder anything about

Rosamund.

“Is that a damsel I spy in that

crumbling castle?” He lowered his lance

and shielded a hand over his brow,

repeating the words he’d rehearsed. The

words were stilted, and his throat dried.

He craned his neck in the direction of the

wooden castle Rosamund had had the

servants build for the occasion. “I spy

some scar—”

He’d meant to say scarlet hair. That

was the phrase he’d rehearsed for the

past weeks. He hadn’t forgotten the

words. Fiona had added them

specifically, changing them from the

raven hair the original script mentioned.

But the locks that spilled from the

window were most certainly not scarlet.

They were bronze-colored, and a

familiar urge to delve his fingers in their

silky strands overwhelmed him.

It couldn’t be.

Perhaps Fiona had put on a wig.

“I spy some hair,” he said.

Sir Seymour cleared his throat. So

far the audience seemed underwhelmed.

His metal boots thudded over the

stage and he retained his focus on that

hair. Definitely not scarlet or crimson or

any of the other colors Fiona’s hair

tended to be, the exact shade varying

with the precise amount of light and

shadows.

It was Rosamund.

On stage with him.

Before absolutely everyone.

What in heavens was she trying to

do?

He didn’t want to see her. She’d

declined his proposal, and if Fiona

hadn’t wanted to act, he would be safely

on his way to London. Where clearly he

should be now. The thought of spending

any time in her company was

intolerable, much less two hours.

His nostrils flared, and his nails

scraped against his palms.

“What on earth are you doing?” he

bellowed.

Chapter Eight

He was a fortress. A furious, gleaming

fortress. One that clanked and creaked

and thundered toward her. His visor

slammed down, and he stopped to tear it

off and hurl it off the stage.

The bang echoed through the

medieval room, abetted by the low

timber beams, and Rosamund froze.

This had not been one of Fiona’s

better ideas.

She swallowed hard. They needed to

talk. And unfortunately, speaking now

before everyone was the only way.

“What are you doing?” He roared.

“I’m Angélique,” she squeaked.

He scrunched his eyebrows into a

scowl.

“Sweet, innocent Angélique?” His

words were sarcastic, and she shot a

glance at the audience.

Smiles stretched on their placid

faces, and she struggled to square her

shoulders. “Tis I.”

He glowered, and the urge to flee

rocketed through her. The dark edges of

the stage tempted her, and she fought the

desire to switch roles with her sister

again.

But this was her chance. Her only

chance. Even if all her relatives and all

her neighbors were observing,

mistakenly believing that her nerves

derived from her abhorrence of acting

and not from the fact that her future

happiness was at risk.

“This was a mist—”

“You’re supposed to be rescuing

me,” she prompted.

He stiffened, and his eyes narrowed.

“You can’t be serious.”

The audience rustled in the

armchairs the servants had laid out in

rows, likely impatient with their

whispers.

Rosamund raised her voice. “Woe is

me. This is a tragic tale.”

The audience members leaned

forward.

“An entirely new version,” Sir

Seymour said, his resounding voice

easily carrying the several feet from his

seat to the stage. “Most intriguing.”

Marcus lowered his voice. “Fiona is

indisposed?”

“Y-yes.” Rosamund inhaled. “And I

am in need of a hero.”

“That seems unlike you.” His voice

was still stiff, still formal.

“Perhaps,” she said brightly, “you

can be my hero!”

Sir Seymour chuckled. “He’s

wearing the right attire.”

Rosamund thought she heard Aunt

Lavinia hushing him.

“Perhaps the damsel would prefer to

remain in her castle,” Marcus said.

“Do you want me to remain?”

Rosamund asked.

Marcus’s eyes flickered in

confusion. “Perhaps there is another lady

I might rescue instead?”

“Another!” Sir Seymour laughed and

he cupped his hand to his mouth. “You

don’t need to juggle here, your lordship!

You’re acting. Rescue the lady.”

This time Rosamund was certain

Aunt Lavinia was silencing him.

Marcus’s face was still stiff, and

Rosamund’s chest constricted.

The plan had been ridiculous, a last

attempt before he fled Yorkshire, never

to be seen again. She’d already given

him her answer, and why would anything

change now? The man seemed to despise

her.

She strove to retain a pleasant smile

for her relatives, even as Marcus’s eyes

clouded, even if the warmth that had

once existed there seemed forever

extinguished. But the act of raising her

lips seemed an impossible task, and she

suddenly felt a great compassion for

Atlas and his task of holding the world

up.

“Sir!” She cried, and she scrambled

from the makeshift castle. “You—you

are my knight.”

Marcus widened his eyes.

“My knight—and no one else’s,” she

hastened to add. “I would not want you

to be anyone else’s knight.”

The audience must be puzzled now,

but Rosamund didn’t care. Her only

concern was Marcus.

“I am perhaps being forward,” she

said. “But I wanted to assure you that I

—I would be deeply desirous of you to

stay longer.”

“Not too much longer,” Sir Seymour

huffed. “Isn’t the villain supposed to

show up soon?”

Marcus’s eyes softened. He

narrowed the gap between them, and his

gaze swept over her. The faint scent of

cotton and pine needles wafted over her.

She closed her eyes and allowed

herself to inhale. Perhaps this was the

end. Perhaps this was the closest they’d

ever be together. Tears stung her eyes,

and she blinked furiously. “I—I made a

mistake.”

“Rosamund,” Marcus murmured.

“Angélique,” Sir Seymour corrected.

“Shh… This isn’t a Christmas

pantomime,” Aunt Lavinia’s crisp voice

said from the audience. “His lordship is

allowed to forget his lines.”

“Ah, yes,” Sir Seymour said. “Even

earls cannot be perfect.”

A warm palm cupped her face, and a

hand stroked her cheeks.

Her heart ratcheted her in her chest.

“I made a horrible mistake. You are

everything wonderful. And marriage to

you would be everything splendid.”

“Because you must marry someone?”

Marcus asked. “A matchmaker would

understand that.”

Rosamund shook her head. “I—I

love you.”

“Truly?” His voice softened.

“Truly,” Rosamund murmured.

Marcus’s lips stretched into a wide

smile. “Forgive me.”

“You?”

“I was too hasty with my proposal.”

Rosamund blinked.

“I missed something,” Sir Seymour

hollered from the audience.

Marcus flicked a hand away and

smiled as he gazed down at her.

“I’m a scientist. When I find the right

answer—and you, my dear, are

definitely the right answer—I’m far too

happy. But I understand that you might

still want to get to know me more. And,

my dear, I can go slowly for you. If

you’re the least bit interested. I would

like to court you. I can be a turtle, a snail

—”

“A caterpillar?” Rosamund’s lips

twitched for the first time.

“I—”

“They tend toward slowness, judging

from their leisurely crawling on the

cobblestones every spring.”

“Right.” Marcus grinned.

He was smiling and perhaps, just

perhaps, everything would be alright.

“You don’t need to transform

yourself, Marcus,” she said. “Even

though I’ve heard that caterpillars

transform themselves into the most

wondrous butterflies.”

“What do you want?” His voice

sobered.

“You.” Her voice was breathy. “I

didn’t really want you to marry my

sister.”

“Sister?” Sir Seymour bellowed. “I

think you must have skipped an act.”

“Hush…” Aunt Lavinia murmured.

“They’re not supposed to skip acts,”

Sir Seymour muttered. “He said he knew

his lines.”

Rosamund sighed. She kept her

voice low, but she didn’t care if

everyone else heard. Marcus had to

understand. “I just wanted you both to be

happy, and I—I was so unhappy at the

thought that I liked you more than I

should.”

“You did?”

“I did. I do, I—” She swallowed

hard.

“My darling.” This time he swept

her in his arms. The steel plates of his

ridiculous armor pressed against her, but

the only sensation she felt was joy.

Marcus smiled and he pulled her

closer to him. “You despise acting.”

She shrugged. “I don’t despise you.”

His lips twitched. “I don’t despise

you either.”

“You were planning on leaving right

after the performance, and—and I

wanted to see you again. I wanted to

explain everything to you. But I at least

wanted to see you again.”

“My darling.” He lowered his head

and brushed his lips against hers. Their

kiss deepened, moving from tenderness

to something fiery and scintillating and

—

Sir Seymour cleared his throat

loudly. Very loudly.

“I think the others are expecting a

play,” Rosamund said.

“Shall we proceed?”

Rosamund’s cheeks warmed, and she

glanced toward the audience. “I’m afraid

I don’t know all the lines.”

He laughed. “Do you think the guests

can satisfy themselves with an

engagement party instead of watching a

play?”

“Marcus!” She looped her arms

around his neck.

“Will you make me the happiest man

in the world? Will you marry me?”

“I will.”

There was no hesitation this time.

They kissed again, and then he took

her arm and led her off the stage. The

others stood up.

“You-you kissed her,” Sir Seymour

sputtered.

Marcus grinned. “I’m going to marry

her.”

“In the play?”

“Forever.” Marcus squeezed her

hand.

“You better,” Sir Seymour

exclaimed.

“Nothing in the world would make

me happier,” Marcus declared.

Delight darted through her. Her

sister, her grandmother, and everyone

she cared for were here. Right now

some of them were still surprised, but

soon they would recognize, just like she

had, that this was real.

THE END

***

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How to Capture a

Duke

All she had to do was find a fiancé. In

four days. In the middle of nowhere.

—

One reclusive bluestocking…

Fiona Amberly is more intrigued by

the Roman ruins near her manor house

than she is by balls. When her dying

Grandmother worries about Fiona’s

future, Fiona stammers that she’s

secretly engaged. Soon she finds herself

promising that she will introduce her

husband-to-be by Christmas.

One dutiful duke…

Percival Carmichael, new Duke of

Alfriston, is in a hurry. He’s off to

propose to London’s most eligible

debutante. After nearly dying at

Waterloo, he’s vowed to spend the rest

of his life living up to the ton’s

expectations.

One fallen tree…

When Fiona tries to warn a passing

coach about a tree in the road, the driver

mistakes her for a highwaywoman.

Evidently he’s not used to seeing women

attired in clothes only suitable for

archaeology waving knives. After the

driver flees, Fiona decides she may as

well borrow the handsome passenger…

Buy the book on amazon.

Chapter One

December 1815

Yorkshire

Crisp jingles chimed through the

cold air, merging with the rhythmic trot

of horses, and Fiona Amberly had never

been more convinced of her utter

abhorrence of Christmas.

She poked her head from the

archaeological site, brushed a hand

smudged with clay through her hair and

peered in the direction of the sound.

A coach barreled down the slope,

pulled by two pairs of prancing white

horses, and her throat dried. Red and

green plumes perched from the horses’

headgear, an unnecessary nod to the

approaching holiday. The sun glowed

over the glossy black surface of the

coach, flickering over its vibrantly

painted wheels and golden crest.

She tightened her fists around the

slabs of timber she used to fortify the pit.

Only one person had threatened to

visit her.

Madeline.

Fiona hauled herself up and rushed

to the road, dragging her dress through

more mud. The coach thundered toward

her, and she waved both arms above her

head. Now was not the time to muse on

the ridiculousness of her appearance.

“Halt. Halt.”

The coach slowed, and she hastily

brushed some dirt from her dress,

managing to remove a few specks.

“What is it, Miss Amberly?” The

driver was sufficiently trained not to

openly gawk, but his gaze still darted to

her ragged clothes and the pile of

excavation materials.

Never mind that. Red-headed women

with freckles were never destined to

possess elegance.

“Is Lady Mulbourne inside?”

The driver nodded, and Fiona rushed

to the door. The question was foolish:

only her cousin would have asked for

her coach to be decked out in such finery

for a five-mile jaunt.

Madeline poked her head through the

carriage window, and Fiona hastily

brushed a few more specks of soil from

her dress.

“Happy Christmas,” Madeline

chirped.

“Er . . . yes.”

“You have a remarkable ability to

never change.”

Fiona shifted her feet, and her boots

crunched over dried leaves.

“So unconstrained by the pulls of

even the most basic fashion rules.”

Madeline’s eyes flickered over her,

roaming over every button and pleat

with the eagerness of a general

scrutinizing a map of enemy territory.

“And still in half-mourning, I see.”

Fiona stiffened and pulled her hands

back. No need for her cousin to comment

on the frayed hem of her sleeve as well

as her gray dress.

“Would you like a ride? I’m on my

way to see Grandmother.”

Fiona didn’t want a ride. She wanted

to work more on the site. Winter was

approaching, and if the farmers were

right about their grumblings regarding

the shade of the sky, the place would be

covered in snow soon.

But ever since Fiona had blurted out

to Grandmother that she was engaged to

the most brilliant man in the world, it

was vital that she did not allow

Grandmother to be left alone with

Madeline.

The captain was everything a man

should be: handsome and brave, smart

and funny, and since the Napoleonic

Wars had ended, finally living in

England.

At least he would be if he existed.

Fiona groaned. Yes, Christmas was

firmly relegated to the short list of things

she despised. The holiday surpassed

dress fittings, empty dance cards, and

mushrooms in horribleness. Only

Napoleon, carriage accidents, and

somber-faced doctors ranked higher on

her list of hated things.

How on earth had the emperor had

the indecency to give up the war before

Fiona had had the foresight to invent a

death worthy of her dear, valiant,

charming fiancé?

Fiona glanced at the site. “Let me

just rearrange some things.”

Madeline nodded, and Fiona hastily

covered the pit, casting a lingering look

on the Roman finds. The shards of

pottery and coins buried within the clay

were so near, and she ached to remain

and unearth more, to feel the giddiness

and delight that rushed through her with

every discovery she made with her

trowel.

Instead she hurried back to the

carriage. A familiar dread tightened her

stomach as she climbed the metal steps,

but she steeled her jaw and rubbed her

hand against her hair, dislodging a lock

from her chignon.

“How pleasant to see you,”

Madeline said in a too-sweet voice, and

a prickly warmth dashed up the back of

Fiona’s neck. “I was hoping you might

be able to attend my Christmas Ball this

year, given that you have never attended

before.”

Fiona smiled tightly at her one-time

friend as she struggled to re-pin the lock

of hair. She settled onto the bench and

flickered her gaze downward. Telling

herself not to dwell on the smudges of

dirt scattered on her dress failed to

lessen her embarrassment.

Disappointing people was a skill she

had acquired in childhood, simply due to

the apparent misfortune of her hair color.

She’d long ago accustomed herself to

her striking inability to fulfil the ton‘s

expectations. Her unfashionably curved

figure had frustrated her dressmakers

during her shortened season and made

her conspicuous against the sleek,

willowy figures of the other debutantes.

“I suppose it must be terribly trying

for you to attend a ball, given that you

have so little practice in looking

pleasant.” Madeline smoothed the

golden ringlets that framed her face.

Every flourish, formed in the proper

manner, with curling tongs rather than

nature’s haphazardness, was immaculate.

“Unless perhaps you can grace us with

your presence after all?”

“I’m afraid it’s impossible,” Fiona

said. “Regretfully.”

“Oh.” Her cousin’s lips stretched

into a straight line.

“It is unfortunate you had to travel

all this way. I would have thought the

postal system would have managed to

deliver my regrets,” Fiona continued.

Madeline pressed her lips together

and swung her gaze to the window and

the view of heavy dark clouds that

floated over the jagged Dales.

The light from the carriage windows

slid over her cousin’s pale blond hair,

framing it like a halo, and cast a glow

over the glossy silk ruffles of her dress.

Somehow her cousin had managed to

travel five miles and appear immaculate,

and Fiona could scarcely travel a few

feet without finding herself in difficulty.

Holly and mistletoe dangled from the

ceiling of the coach, bright bursts against

the staid black walls. Such greenery had

been but a mild curiosity to Fiona before

the accident, but now it signified

everything dreadful.

If Christmas did not exist, her cousin

would not be across from her, and Fiona

most certainly would not have

abandoned perhaps her last chance to

visit the archaeological site in order to

sit in a closed and jostling coach,

striving for an excuse to skip the

woman’s ball.

“Now do tell me,” Madeline said,

“Whatever were you doing standing in a

pit in the earth?”

“I—”

“It’s the sort of thing that gives

Yorkshire women a bad reputation,”

Madeline said. “You really must

reconsider your habits. It will be trying

enough for you to find a husband without

acting like the local madwoman.”

Fiona squared her shoulders. “How

kind of you to worry. Really, it’s wholly

unnecessary. And I’m not in the least

need of a husband.”

If only Grandmother would believe

that.

Madeline smiled. “You’re always in

the habit of saying the most curious

things. Most fascinating.”

Fiona gave her a wobbly smile and

considered divulging her secret. She

pondered the pottery, the Roman coins

and helmets, the vases and mosaics

she’d found on the border of the apple

orchard.

She longed to share everything.

There were so many brilliant objects. It

couldn’t be sheer coincidence. There

had to be a Roman palace buried there.

Cloudbridge Castle lay on the route

toward Hadrian’s Wall, and it was not

entirely absurd to think that the Romans

may have built a palace on the way.

Perhaps the Romans had had a tendency

to wander around in togas, but that didn’t

mean they hadn’t enjoyed fine homes as

well. The materials she had found were

too ornate for a simple station for

soldiers of insignificant rank.

But her cousin wouldn’t understand.

The last person Fiona had told had been

Uncle Seymour. She’d wanted his

permission to excavate the apple

orchard, and he’d exploded at the

prospect of cutting any of the trees down

on the off chance that some broken cups

and plates might be underneath. Though

Uncle Seymour visited infrequently, the

estate belonged to him, and once

Grandmother died, he would move in.

Fiona drew in a breath. Some things

were better not dwelled on. And perhaps

Madeline was right. Perhaps she should

attend the ball.

“Will the baron be there?” Fiona

tilted her head, thinking of the materials

she’d found underneath the apple

orchard.

Madeline’s husband’s advice in

assessing the objects’ value would be

invaluable. The baron was a renowned

art critic, and his work on the Elysian

Marbles was genius. She was sure his

favorable assessment had spurred the

new British Museum to acquire them.

Unfortunately, he seemed to favor

London far more than Yorkshire.

“My husband?” Madeline’s voice

faltered.

“I would like to speak to him about

some findings…”

“Oh.” Madeline’s long black

eyelashes swooped down over her eyes.

“Perhaps I might be of some use—”

Fiona shook her head. The less

people she told about the apple orchard

the better. The ones she had told already

thought her mad for believing there was

a Roman palace buried underneath there.

Her cousin was not the type to lend

herself to confidences; she was far too

fond of gossip.

Right now it was more important that

Madeline did not learn of Fiona’s

supposed engagement; her cousin was

the largest gossip in Yorkshire. Fiona

had no inclination to be a laughingstock,

and any hope of the credulity and

support the baron might give her theory

on the Roman palace would be

destroyed if he were to discover she’d

invented a fiancé.

Though she’d long abandoned any

aspirations to marry, she couldn’t stand

the thought that all her work, all the

carefully collected and recorded

artefacts, would lose all significance

because their finder was deemed a

foolish girl. No one would donate funds

so that the rest of the palace might be

dug from the ground, and any mosaics,

any sculptures, any pottery would remain

firmly in the earth to be forgotten.

Fiona’s conviction that a Roman

palace lay under the apple orchard

would be deemed ridiculous, and anyone

she told would be reminded in giggling

tones that Fiona also had insisted she

was betrothed to a wonderful man, when

the man had turned out to be entirely

imaginary.

The coach pulled in before

Cloudbridge Castle, and Fiona exhaled.

Gray stones blended into the harsh gray

sky above, as the castle thrust its jagged

turrets, defenses from a former age, into

the sky. In another age her ancestors

would have warred against the

neighboring aristocrats; now they were

supposed to be friends, simply for their

shared status.

Her cousin exited the coach and

glided toward the butler, padding her

lace boots over the cobblestones. Fiona

lifted her gray dress and proceeded. The

coarse wool prickled her fingers, and

she stumbled on a worn cobble.

“Madeline.” Grandmother’s

astonished voice rang out from the open

door of the castle, and Fiona quickened

her pace.

Murmurings sounded. Fiona couldn’t

decipher her cousin’s doubtlessly

refined answer. Madeline’s delicate

soprano voice never carried, a fact her

cousin had exploited once she

discovered she could make snide

comments about everyone, assured that

only her seat companion would be able

to hear.

Fiona entered to discover

Grandmother leading Madeline toward

the Great Hall. So much for any hope of

speaking with Grandmother alone. Fiona

followed them, her dress swishing

against the antiques cramming the

narrow hallway.

“I was just telling Fiona that I was

so hoping you might grace us with your

presence at this year’s annual Christmas

ball.”

Grandmother laughed as they settled

into the velvety armchairs that

surrounded the table in the Great Hall.

“My days of balls are behind me, though

Fiona might attend.”

“How splendid.” Madeline clapped

her hands together.

Fiona moved a finger to her collar,

brushing against her mother’s favorite

brooch. “Thank you for inviting me, but I

fear I cannot accept the invitation.”

“But dearest!” Grandmother

exclaimed.

Fiona stood up, coughing. “I fear I’m

getting a cold. You must go, Madeline. I

would not want to inflict anything so

despicable on my dearest cousin.”

Madeline’s thick eyelashes, far

longer and more elegant than Fiona

deemed necessary, fluttered downward

as she blinked. “I’m sure I do not fear

any cold that you might have.”

“Then you are a brave woman,

baroness.” Fiona strove to keep her face

solemn.

“But you truly should consider

attending!” Her cousin leaned forward,

and her eyes sparkled. Her voice took on

an affable tone at odds with the smug

manner she seemed to favor. “I’m sure

we can find you an eligible bachelor

with whom to dance. Cousin Cecil is

attending.”

“Indeed.”

“Why, he shows as little interest for

dancing as you do! Uncle Seymour and

Aunt Lavinia say it is sure to be an ideal

match. He has no title, but not everyone

can be sufficiently fortunate to marry a

man with one.” She beamed, perhaps

contemplating her own accomplishment

at acquiring a baron.

Fiona strove to nod politely, thinking

it best not to mention that she suspected

it was not within Cousin Cecil’s nature

to find doing much of anything with a

woman appealing.

A maid appeared with tea.

“You must find yourself a husband,”

Madeline said. “It is the natural course

of things, and your sister is no longer

here to keep you company. And the ball

will be marvelous. They always are.”

“How delightful.” Grandmother

picked up the teapot and poured tea into

a cup. “And by then Fiona’s—”

Fiona coughed. Not in the most

elegant manner, but she was aiming for

loudness, not delicacy.

Madeline moved back a fraction, and

Grandmother’s eyebrows jolted up.

“My dearest, you are doing quite

poorly. I don’t think I’ve ever heard you

cough quite like that. It was as if—”

“As if you were trying to emulate a

carriage.” Madeline bit into a sweet.

Grandmother fixed her gaze on the

baroness. “I wouldn’t have termed it in

quite that manner.”

“Oh, yes!” Madeline said. “The kind

with multiple horses, and driving on

poorly maintained roads. Like in

Scotland!”

Fiona’s chest constricted. At this

moment she could only hope her

grandmother had thoroughly forgotten

everything Fiona had ever told her about

Captain Knightley. She heaped a

generous amount of sugar into her

teacup, snatched a silver spoon, and

stirred the tea with vigor.

“I might not be well enough for the

Christmas ball.” Fiona touched her

forehead and ventured another cough.

“My dear!” Grandmother’s hand

flickered to her chest, and Fiona cursed

the lie. Grandmother worried far too

much.

“I mean, I am sure I will eventually

recover, but—”

“Splendid!” Madeline nodded. “The

ball is not until Christmas Day, and you

will have four days during which you

might make your recovery.”

“I am wary of risking the health of

the other guests.”

“I have the utmost confidence in your

health.” Madeline accepted the cup

Fiona’s grandmother offered and raised

it to her perfectly formed lips. “It would

be odd indeed if everyone in Yorkshire

were attempting to sound like

carriages.”

Fiona gulped her tea. The hot liquid

swirled down her throat, and she

grabbed the teapot to pour herself more,

sloshing tea over the delicate lace

tablecloth. Heat prickled the back of her

neck, and her hands shook as she sopped

up the amber puddle with a napkin.

“And of course,” Madeline’s clear

voice continued, “We were also sorry to

miss having you last year, and the year

before as well. But then I suppose you

might find it uncomfortable, now that

you’ve reached such an advanced age

with no husband—”

Grandmother’s mouth opened, and

she seemed more alert than normal.

“I must go.” Fiona leaped up.

Perhaps if Fiona hastened, her cousin

would follow and then—

“She’s already got one!”

Grandmother beamed and selected a

sweet. “Next year she’ll be hosting her

own festivities.”

Fiona stiffened.

“Excuse me?” Madeline halted, and

a knot in Fiona’s stomach hardened. Of

all the times for Grandmother to be

vocal. Nothing delighted Madeline more

than gossip, and her ties to London were

strong.

Fiona’s knees wobbled, and she sank

back into her chair. If the world were

ending, she may as well be comfortable.

“Surely Fiona hasn’t found a

husband?” Madeline leaned forward,

and a smile played on her lips.

“She has.” Grandmother gave a

contented sigh.

Madeline’s smile broadened to an

almost unladylike extent. “However did

you find a husband?”

“Fiancé.” Fiona’s voice wobbled at

the lie. “That’s all.”

“Mm-hmm!” Madeline turned her

gaze to the window and the jagged

curves of the Dales, scattered with

snow. “Who knew it would be so simple

to find a fiancé here?”

The landscape seemed rather devoid

of any dwellings, much less one

belonging to an appropriate husband-to-

be.

“He’s . . . er . . . away!” Fiona said.

“I can’t make his acquaintance?”

Madeline’s tone was mournful, even

though her eyes seemed to sparkle with

something very much resembling mirth.

“He’s not an officer, is he?”

“That’s it!” Fiona said. “So he’s

very much gone.”

Madeline’s perfectly groomed

eyebrows arched up. “How astonishing.

What’s his name?”

“Um… We’re trying to keep the

engagement secret now,” Fiona said. “I

hope you can be understanding.”

“So he lacks a name?” Madeline

asked, her voice calm, though her lips

extended upward briefly, before she

hastened to sip her tea. “I look forward

to meeting such an extraordinary

person.”

Fiona averted her eyes. Her gaze fell

on the tea caddy. Dust clung to the

mahogany box, and Fiona brushed her

finger over the wood. Visitors were not

common at Cloudbridge Castle.

“He is said to espouse all the best

possible qualities,” Grandmother

declared.

“Indeed?” Madeline tilted her head,

and for one blissful moment Fiona

thought the woman seemed uneasy. The

baroness’s eyes soon narrowed. “To

think you met someone here, without any

assistance. And how unlikely that he

should be in possession of such apparent

brilliance.”

“Ah, but you forget that Fiona is

brilliant herself.” Grandmother’s eyes

softened. “I was so concerned about her

future and was relieved to find she was

engaged all along.”

“Secretly!” Fiona hastened to add.

“A secret engagement. In fact, we met in

London, during my season.”

“Those two weeks?” Madeline’s

eyebrows pushed up.

“Which was why Fiona was so eager

to return home,” Grandmother added, but

her voice faltered somewhat, and her

gaze rested on Fiona too long.

“I see,” Madeline said. “Likely even

our grandmother has not had the good

fortune of meeting this ideal man.”

Fiona coughed now, and this time the

cough felt real.

“Well I am sure that now all the

soldiers are being returned home, you

will have no more need for discretion.”

Madeline smoothed the folds of her

dress. A ruby ring sparkled from her

finger against the green fabric. “One

week. Grandmother will desire the

meeting as well. You wouldn’t want her

to suspect you invented the man!”

Madeline laughed, and Grandmother

joined her after a trace of hesitation that

Fiona despised.

Fiona wanted Grandmother to

believe what happened three years

before hadn’t mattered. She couldn’t

stand the thought of Grandmother

continuing to worry about her, all the

while being visited by doctors with

increasing frequency and expense.

“He’ll be there!”

“Wonderful.” Her cousin rose.

“I only hope he’ll be able to make

his journey over to Yorkshire safely.

Perhaps he’ll be delayed—”

“The man’s survived the worst war

mankind has ever seen,” Madeline said.

“He’ll be fine.”

“I’m so happy for you.”

Grandmother’s eyes took on a blissful,

dreamy expression, one Fiona knew

well, but which she had seen too little of

ever since the doctors’ sober news. It

was that expression that kept Fiona from

admitting that she’d lied last year in a

foolish attempt to keep Grandmother

from worrying about her future.

Fiona rubbed a hand against her hair,

and another curl dropped from her

chignon.

“Unless there’s a problem.”

Madeline smirked. “Sometimes when

men don’t see their betrothed for long

periods of time, they find they do not

anticipate the meeting with the requisite

eagerness. Perhaps—”

Fiona’s lips settled into a firm line.

“The captain is devoted and true. He is

kind and brave and dashing. He is

everything a man should be.”

Madeline offered her a wobbly

smile. “Marvelous.”

Fiona raised her chin and struggled

to maintain a composed face. She had no

desire to suffer humiliation from the ton,

but there was no way in which she

would allow the truth of her behavior to

reach her grandmother. Even if

concocting a fiancé might not be

specifically warned against in etiquette

books, the consequences of being found

out would be no doubt distressing.

“Then I will leave.” Madeline’s

emerald green skirts swept against the

furniture, and she exited the room with

as much determination as she had

entered it. She paused to glance at the

ceiling.

Fiona followed her cousin’s gaze.

Shapely goddesses with white wigs and

scant attire stared at her. No doubt they

would think Fiona repugnant as they

perched from their fluffy ivory clouds,

their pale, unfreckled skin raised toward

the sun. None of them would invent

fiancés.

“Really, you should have this

restored. There are many treasures here.

Aunt Lavinia says when—” Her cousin

halted and her cheeks pinkened. “Never

mind. I am happy for you.”

“Thank you,” Fiona squeaked.

Anyway. It would be easy.

All she had to do was find a fiancé.

In four days. In the middle of

nowhere.

When no man had ever expressed an

interest in her before.

How hard would it be to find a man

by Monday? She didn’t need to marry

the fellow. In fact, he needn’t even attend

the ball. He just needed to prove his

existence, a feat that would suffice in

impressing the others. If she only

succeeded in introducing somebody to

Grandmother, all would be fine.

Or mostly fine.

Buy the book on amazon.

About the Author

Wellesley graduate Bianca Blythe spent

four years in England. She worked in a

fifteenth century castle, though sadly that

didn’t actually involve spotting dukes

and earls strutting about in Hessians.

She credits British weather for forcing

her into a library, where she discovered

her first Julia Quinn novel. Thank

goodness for blustery downpours.

***

Connect with Bianca:

Join her mailing list.

www.biancablythe.com

https://www.facebook.com/biancablytheauthor

biancablythebooks@gmail.com

Document Outline

Title Page
Copyright
Table Of Contents
Blurb
Acknowledgements
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
How to Capture a Duke
About the Author

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