“…love is love for evermore.”
-Alfred, Lord Tennyson
England, 1878
aggie, Marchioness of Sandhurst, knew when to concede defeat, and now was proving just such a moment. She watched the first evening of Lady Needham’s infamous country house weekend unfolding in all its raucous glory. How had she ever thought she could find the courage to start a scandal to rival the debauchery before her?
Straight ahead, a masked lady’s nipples were nearly visible above the décolletage of her black evening gown as she sipped champagne and flirted shamelessly with a masked gentleman. To her left, a gentleman had a lady pinned to the wall as he feasted on her neck. At her right, another couple’s furtive motions suggested they were engaged in something far more depraved.
She’d thought that she was made of stern enough stuff to do what she must to regain her independence. Any man would suffice, she’d told herself, no matter how disagreeable the task. He could be old or young, short or tall, balding, round about the middle. She didn’t care. As long as he wasn’t cruel or malodorous, she could bear it.
Fool, she chastised herself. Coward.
For here she stood, mouth dry, heart thundering in her breast, fingers clenching her silk skirts. Too afraid to step forward, throw caution to the wind. Too fearful to free herself from the prison of her mistakes.
There was no hope for it. She wasn’t cut from the same cloth as her fellow revelers, for watching them only made her want to retire to her chamber, snuggle beneath the covers, and read the volume of poetry she’d brought along with her. If only she hadn’t chosen duty instead of love.
With a sigh, she turned away from the swirls of skirts and the dashing sight of masked rakes wooing their eager female counterparts. After two steps, she froze as she heard an unmistakable sound above the laughter and the music and the rumble of inebriated voices. It was the one sound a lady never wanted to hear, the sound that invariably made her shudder in her silk shoes.
The awful sound of fabric rending.
Her train, to be specific. The lush fall of silk designed by Worth himself. Hopelessly torn. Dismay mingling with true despair within her, she turned to find the culprit. He was dressed to perfection in evening black, taller than she, his identity obscured by an equally midnight half-mask. The lower half of his face revealed a wide jaw, a sculpted mouth. There was no denying that he was handsome, but he didn’t appear to notice her, his glittering green eyes instead traveling the sea of iniquity above Maggie’s head.
What a lout. Perhaps he was a drunkard as well. Stifling the urge to roll her eyes in frustration, she attempted to gain the man’s attention, for he still stood upon the mangled remnants of her beautiful violet silk. “Pardon me, sir?”
He either ignored her or didn’t hear her, caught up in the madness of the ball. For a moment, she had the distinct impression his mind was far away from the ballroom crush. He seemed to look past them all, lost in his own meandering thoughts.
But this man and his thoughts were not her concern. Be he inebriated, enthralled, or distracted, unfortunately he was still on her skirts. “Sir?” She raised her voice, trying not to call too much attention to herself for she was ashamed she’d even deigned to attend the notorious party in the first place.
He remained oblivious. Perhaps he suffered from a hearing problem. Oh dear. It seemed she had no choice if she wanted to save her train from further damage. Maggie reached out and laid a tentative hand on his arm. “Sir?”
He gave a start and turned the force of that startling mossy gaze on her. “Madam?”
His arm was surprisingly well-muscled, his coat warm with the heat of his large body. She withdrew her touch with haste as if he were a pot too long on the stove that she’d inadvertently touched with her bare hand. He still didn’t realize he trampled her gorgeous evening gown. It took her a breath to regain her composure under the force of those piercing eyes.
“Sir,” she began hesitantly, “I’m afraid you’re standing upon my train. If you’d be so kind?”
“Damn it to hell,” he muttered, startling her with his blunt language. His penetrating stare dropped to the floor and he quickly removed the offending shoes from her silk. “Ah Christ, it’s ripped to bits, isn’t it?”
She cast a dreary eye over the effects of his feet. “I expect it will require some correction, yes.”
Correction was rather an understatement. Her silk train, complete with box-pleated ribbon trim and a lace-and-jet overlay, was badly torn. She wasn’t certain a seamstress’s hand could make repairs without them being obvious to the eye. It wasn’t as if she couldn’t afford a new gown, but this had been her first occasion wearing it, and it had been unbearably lovely.
“I’m truly sorry.” His voice sounded cross, drawing her attention back up to his frowning mouth. “If you’ll allow it, I’ll be happy to have it repaired for you.”
His mouth was especially fine, she noted again, contrary to her better judgment, firm yet sculpted. He had a generous mouth. Kissable. Dear heaven. What was she about, swooning over an unknown man’s lips? Hadn’t she just decided she was too craven to create the sort of scandal she’d require? She swallowed, forcing herself to recall what he’d just said.
“I appreciate your offer, sir, but I have a wonderful seamstress.” She thought of the dressmaker she used in London when in a pinch. Very likely, the entire train would require replacing.
“But the fault is mine,” he persisted, playing the gentleman now that she’d finally gained his attention.
“Nonsense,” she parried, feeling slightly foolish over her womanly horror at the damage to her gown. It had not been intentionally done, after all, and she had more than enough coin for Madame Laurier’s alterations. “Of all things that need mending, mere fabric is by far the easiest and least costly.”
He tilted his head, considering her with a fathomless stare that made her skin tingle to life with a dizzying warmth. “I sincerely doubt truer words were ever spoken.”
There was an intensity underlying his words that made her believe he was sincere and not merely another rake plying meaningless flattery. For the first time since stepping into the whirlwind of the ballroom, Maggie was intrigued.
“What have you that needs mending, sir?” she asked, feeling suddenly bold after all.
His lips quirked into a wry smile beneath his mask. “Would you believe it’s my heart?”
So he loved another, then. She tried to ignore the stab of disappointment the revelation sent through her. “I know better than anyone just how difficult it is to mend a heart.” She frowned as she thought of the unhappy life in which she had found herself. The realization she had settled on this miserable path was a constant burr beneath her mind’s saddle. “Perhaps impossible.”
“What man would dare to break the heart of a woman as beautiful as you?” he demanded. “An utter imbecile, surely.”
She laughed. “Forgive me, but I fear you’re guilty of dissembling.”
“Dissembling?” He pressed a large hand over his heart, feigning shock. “I’m wounded. Why would you say such a thing?”
“Because you can’t see my face,” she pointed out, grinning despite herself. She well knew that her dainty mask covered all of her face as well, save her mouth. It was rather the point of a masque, after all. She would have to remove it to accomplish what she wanted. But for now, there was safety in her anonymity.
“Yes, but you have the most extraordinarily lovely eyes I’ve ever seen,” he returned with remarkable aplomb. “I daresay they’re almost violet.”
Another wave of warmth washed over her. He was somehow different, this man. Dangerous to be sure. “I rather like you,” she confided before she could stop herself. Drat. Being too honest had always been one of her downfalls. She’d never been very good at hiding her emotions behind a polite veil. Perhaps it was why she’d had such difficulty blending with London society.
He grinned. “You sound alarmed. I’m not all bad, I assure you.”
She shook her head, trying to regain her wits. “It is merely that I’d given up on your countrymen.”
“My countrymen?” He paused, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he eyed her with dawning comprehension. “You’re an American, are you? I thought I detected an accent.”
“I am,” she acknowledged. “I suppose that renders my eyes less lovely now.” Although a number of American heiresses like herself had made their way to England, they were not always well received. She’d had to work quite hard to forge her way, and acceptance from English ladies had not proved an easy or sometimes even achievable feat.
“Of course not.” An emotion she couldn’t define darkened his voice. “Your eyes are still lovely as ever. Would you care to dance?”
Oh dear heaven. The invitation excited her until she recalled two things. She was an abysmal dancer, and her train was in pieces. She wisely kept the first to herself. “I’d love to, but I’m afraid my train…”
“Bloody hell, I’d already forgotten.” He grimaced. “What an ass. Perhaps you’d like another glass of champagne?”
Belatedly, she realized the glass she held was empty. When had she drunk it all? She couldn’t recall. Perhaps that was the reason her head felt as if it had been filled with fluffy white clouds. Yes, that had to be it. Surely it wasn’t the tall stranger with the gorgeous mouth who kept plying her with sensual looks and disarming smiles. She probably ought not to have another flute of champagne.
“I’d love another,” she said. Hadn’t she lived her life the way she should? And what had that gotten her but misery and loneliness and a husband she hadn’t seen in over a year?
He returned to her side and pressed another glass of champagne into her hand. “There you are, my dear.”
“Thank you.” She took a fortifying sip, calming the jagged bundle of her nerves. Perhaps there was hope for her madcap plan after all. The stranger before her would certainly do for a scandal. Yes indeed. He certainly looked like the sort of man who would accept an invitation to sin. She forced her mind into safer territory, trying to distract herself from wanton thoughts. “Who has caused your heart to require mending?” she asked him. “A wife?”
He hesitated, drinking his champagne, and for a moment she feared she’d overstepped her bounds. “Not a wife, no,” he said with care. “But a very old and very dear friend.”
“A lover,” she concluded aloud, then flushed at her bluntness, which always seemed to land her in trouble. “I’m sorry, sir, if I’m too forthright. I cannot seem to help myself.”
“You needn’t apologize. Everyone knows that here at Lady Needham’s none of the standard society rules apply. You’ve but to look around you to see that.” His tone was wry as his gaze lit on the couple against the wall. The man had caught the woman’s skirts in his fist, raising them to reveal her shapely, stocking-clad calves.
Maggie looked away, cheeks stinging. Of course none of the standard rules applied here. Indeed, from all appearances, there were no rules here. It was one of the many reasons she’d decided—against her better judgment—to attend. What better place to create a scandal than a party that existed for the express purpose of licentiousness?
“Is that why you’re here?” she asked him, unable to squelch her curiosity. “For the…lack of rules?”
Surely it was the champagne that made her so daring. For the real Maggie would never have dreamt of insinuating such a thing to a stranger. She’d all but asked him if he sought a lover, for heaven’s sake. But if she wanted to succeed in forcing her husband to divorce her, she couldn’t be herself. She had to be someone fearless and bold. Someone without conscience.
“I suppose it is in part,” he confirmed, taking another sip of spirits. “What of you? What brings you here? You appear terribly young for this fast set.”
“Disappointment, I suppose.” She gulped her champagne as he closed the distance between them. He was so near she could see the dark stubble on his defined jaw.
“You’re certainly too young for disappointment.” He ran a finger from her elbow to her wrist, stopping to tangle his fingers with hers. “Who would dare to disappoint you?”
“My husband,” she whispered, her mouth going dry. Though truth be told, she was far more disappointed in herself than she was in the marquis. After all, she had known he married her for her dowry in the same way she had married him for his title. It was simply that she had not anticipated his utter defection and her resulting misery. But there was little need to divulge her inner sins and secrets to the man before her now. This was to be a lighthearted affair. A means to an end.
“He must be an utter bastard to cause you so much distress.”
She laughed without mirth. “I would simply say he is a rather cold and heartless man.” Yes indeed, that described Sandhurst perfectly.
He squeezed her fingers. “I’m sorry, my dear.”
“You are not the man who owes me an apology.” The old sadness bloomed in her heart as she thought of Jonathan and all she’d left behind. “But I suppose I’ll never have one from him.” The best she could expect from him was anger. Perhaps a blinding fury. She meant to cuckold him before all of London, to leave no doubt in the minds of the entire ton. Only then could she be free. This man could help her. She felt certain of it.
“Do you love him?” he asked, startling her.
His query threw her. People of their class so rarely married for love. She did not love her husband, but she had certainly married him with a hopeful heart. Her mother had assured her that many modern marriages began with respect and led to tender affections after time and diligence. She had hoped to foster a relationship of kindness between herself and her husband, at the very least. Instead, their relationship simply consisted of silence. But it was odd for the man before her to have even pondered such a question.
“Of course not,” she said at last. “What of you and your very dear friend? Do you love her?”
“I did for many years,” he said, the admission seemingly torn from him. “Now, I’m not certain what I feel any longer. A need for change, certainly.”
She saw them for what they were then, a man and woman who had somehow run across each other’s paths at the same ball, both of them lost. Searching. She longed to escape from the gilded prison in which she now found herself. He longed for something. Perhaps distraction. A lover. It didn’t matter. What did matter was that the fear in her had at long last subsided. She stood ready, poised to grab the reins of her life and steer herself in a different direction.
“What sort of change do you seek?” she asked, watching him above the rim of her flute.
His sinful mouth curved in a half smile. “I think perhaps it’s you.”
She nearly choked on her mouthful of champagne. “Me?”
“Oh yes,” he told her in that seductive, deep voice of his. His green eyes were fierce and direct on her, trapping her gaze so she couldn’t look anywhere else. There was no denying his sensual promise. “You.”
Get here.