Chapter One
May 1815
London
Could an offer be in the near future for Lady P.W.? It could, if rumors are to be believed. A particularly scandalous earl was seen calling on her this very morning with a posy in his hands—an obvious sign of his intentions.
Lady Phoebe Woodson snapped her diary closed and set it on the small table beside her chair, patted the leather cover, then carefully aligned her inkwell to its side. “You looked so lovely dancing with Hartshorne last night, Marjorie. Those sapphire earrings you wore matched your eyes.”
“I’m exceedingly happy with him. I still have trouble believing we’ve been married almost seven months. To think a year ago I was ready to wed someone else.” Marjorie sighed and looked toward the window, her face glowing in the sunlight streaming through the glass, which highlighted her short, black curls.
“You two are perfect for each other. Now it’s my turn. I must find the man who’s perfect for me. I’m twenty-four and am still single, isn’t it shocking? Papa has been giving me stern looks when each day passes without a gentleman sending flowers or asking to walk with me at Hyde Park. This year, I vow to not return to the country without accepting a proposal.”
In truth, Phoebe had already found the man she desired with all her heart. She’d brushed aside flirtations from three men over the years, unable to consider anyone but him—Nathan Carruthers, Earl of Basingstoke. With his wickedly handsome dark features and glittering brown eyes, he was the most handsome man of her acquaintance.
At least, she assumed his eyes were brown, and they must glitter, given how his smile lighted his face. She’d never stood close enough to be certain of the shade. Never danced with him, nor pretended to stumble so she could fall into his arms.
A deep sigh escaped as her shoulders slumped.
Her problem was getting Basingstoke to notice her. They’d been introduced three years ago, but for all she knew, he’d promptly forgotten her.
“Do you think he’ll attend Lady Albright’s ball tonight?” Phoebe asked.
“Who? Hart won’t be there. He mentioned meeting a friend at his club.”
“Silly me—I forget you cannot hear what I think.” The friends laughed. “We’ve known each other so long I sometimes believe I know exactly what you’re thinking.”
“Ah, now I understand,” Marjorie said. “You meant Basingstoke.”
Phoebe actually blushed like a silly debutante, her cheeks burning so much they must be bright red. “I’m foolish to think of him, aren’t I?”
“You’re foolish to think your father would allow you to even dance with him, much less marry. Those friends of his…the scandals…the rumors…even if only half are true, those men are truly wicked.”
“But doesn’t the thought of kissing one of those scoundrels excite you, just a little?” Seeing Marjorie’s frown, Phoebe reconsidered. “Well, wouldn’t it have before you married? The gossip surrounding them might be as exaggerated as your husband’s situation was. Hartshorne wasn’t guilty of that scandal with his brother’s wife. Or rather, the woman his brother ended up marrying. That would have been quite the scandal the other way, wouldn’t it?”
Marjorie’s scowl hadn’t softened. “That W pin on Basingstoke’s lapel tells you all you need to know about him. Wicked. Your parents would never forgive you for associating with such a man, and you’d be ruined in Society’s eyes.”
“Very well, I’ll forget about Basingstoke.” She’d never forget the earl, though she could refrain from speaking about him. However, she wouldn’t stop detailing the rumors surrounding him in her diary. Embellishing them…making herself the willing victim of his debauchery, or what she assumed that entailed. Those stories she wrote might be as close as she ever came to a grand romance, so she’d take her enjoyment where she could find it.
***
Nathan Carruthers, Earl of Basingstoke, scooped his winnings from the center of the table and stacked the coins in neat columns with his prior winnings. The club he and the so-called Wicked Earls frequented was quiet, the smell of stale pipe smoke lingering in the air. His friends and fellow earls, Grayson and Weston, passed their cards to the dealer, Sussex.
Grayson drank from his glass. “What’s this rumor I hear about you, Basingstoke? You’re planning to leave the club soon?”
“Leave? Never!” He eyed each of his friends, searching for the laughter they must be holding back.
“That’s not what I heard. You’ve decided to end your days of freedom and marry.” Sussex shuffled the cards and dealt.
Basingstoke coughed to cover his gasp of surprise. He’d mentioned something of the sort to his friend, the Duke of Thornton, but Thorn was very tight lipped. Who could have overheard? “That’s not precisely what I said. I don’t think I mentioned marriage, as such. I simply said it might be time to consider a family.”
The three men laughed loudly, and Basingstoke gritted his teeth, glancing around the room to see who looked their way at the outburst.
“Last I heard, the one required the other, at least for a man of our station,” Weston said. “Although, the ton is convinced you’ve already fathered a son.”
“Leave Benjamin out of this discussion, or any other!” Basingstoke scowled at his friend.
Grayson nodded. “Back to marriage…what could have put such a thought into your head? You’re young…what, twenty-eight?”
“I’m twenty-nine, but that’s beside the point.” Nothing had caused him to waken one day and decide he needed a wife. Several members of their club had lately found love, but he wasn’t envious of them.
He didn’t think so, anyway. No, this idea was a whisper that he heard at odd moments of the day, while riding his horse or sitting alone with a book. A very subtle notion that he should probably ignore.
But he was beginning to like the idea. Not the part where he had to search for the right young lady—he dreaded that the most. The result…the feeling of satisfaction when he sat opposite his wife at breakfast, or he read aloud to her in the evening under the glow of a lamp, those moments were what he looked forward to.
In other words, a marriage completely unlike his parents’.
“Basingstoke, when you’re done wool-gathering, it’s your call.”
He wasn’t even certain which one of the men spoke, but he quickly took his turn before anyone else could add to the good-natured derision.
In the morning, he would finally look at the invitations piled on his desk and see where to begin his search. He had no fear of running into one of the wicked earls in a ballroom, so he could enjoy his evening without the catcalls they’d likely offer.