Prologue
London, spring 1806 (or a variation thereof)
Doing his utmost to ignore the slight quiver in his muscles, Derek McKnight, Baron Ainsworth, drew in a deep breath as his fingers adjusted the simple, black mask covering the upper half of his face. He squared his shoulders, refusing to allow his unease to be visible to those around him, as he climbed the steps to Lord Radcliff’s towering townhouse.
Beside him, his friend chuckled. “This is a masked ball,” Tristan Turner, Viscount Elton, observed, amusement tinging his voice. “You’re not meeting the hangman at dawn.”
Clenching his jaw, Derek glanced at his friend, annoyed with Tristan’s obvious delight at this evening’s festivities. “At least one of us is amused,” he observed dryly, his lips thinning below the lower rim of his mask.
As they proceeded inside, Derek once more felt his muscles tense as he was met by the sheer volume of the ton, dancing and laughing and enjoying themselves without a thought for those less fortunate. The noise was deafening, and for a moment, Derek felt compelled to cover his ears. Never in his life, not even on the field of battle, had he ever felt so overwhelmed by the sheer presence of a large crowd. If he could have, he would have turned on his heel and left.
“Would you smile?” Tristan prompted, shaking his head. “No woman will ever agree to marry you if you scowl at her all the time.”
Grumbling under his breath, Derek willed his muscles to relax, which was not an easy endeavour. As they stood off to the side, watching couples twirl around the dance floor, Derek focused on controlling his breathing while listening to his friend’s voice as he prattled on.
Unlike himself, Tristan had always been a buoyant and vivacious man, seeing only the good and doing his utmost to ignore the bad that he encountered. Still, he dreamed of true love and finding the woman who was his other half.
A part of Derek admired that, his perseverance in the face of his own miserable life. Maybe it was a blessing. Maybe it was a curse. For hope often led to disappointment, did it not?
Derek had learnt this time and time again. He knew very well that few people could be trusted, that most only saw to their own advantage, especially those who had been born to privilege. Gritting his teeth, Derek inhaled deeply through his nose, realising that now he was one of them.
Derek McKnight, Baron Ainsworth.
Once, he had simply been Derek McKnight, a farmer’s son.
Now, he was a peer.
His scowl darkened at the thought as he could not help but consider it an insult.
For his deeds during the war, he had been awarded the title of baron and received a small, run-down barony not two days from London. But what did that say about him? What kind of man did that make him? Would he now join his peers and ignore the plight of those he used to call his equals?
Oh, how he loathed the ton and their ability to turn a blind eye to the miseries of the common people! People like him. People like his family.
Only now, he was not one of them any longer, was he?
Shaking his head, Derek inhaled deeply, feeling a slight throbbing behind his left temple. Unable to flee the room, he returned his attention to his friend, hoping that their conversation would prove enough of a distraction from his gloomy thoughts. However, all the while, his gaze swept the crowd before him, amazed at the lightness with which they seemed to exist. Beaming eyes and smiling faces flew past him in an endless sea of ornate masks, their colours giving this evening a more cheerful note.
And then he saw her.
Her raven-black hair swept up and piled on top of her head, here and there a curled tendril dancing down to touch her bare shoulders, she twirled past him in the arms of a gentleman he all but ignored. The golden glow of her gown shimmered in the soft candlelight of the vaulted room, matching the intense green of her dark eyes, almost hidden behind an ornately designed mask. Her full lips drew up into a smile as her eyes drifted from her partner the moment their steps drew them apart.
Derek sucked in a stuttering breath, shocked by the sudden inner turmoil that assaulted him. What on earth was going on?
Unable to avert his eyes, he watched her laugh and smile, exchange a few words here and there as she continued her rounds through the large ballroom, and he wondered what it was that drew him to her. Was it her beauty? She certainly was a vision, a sight to behold, almost without compare. And yet, Derek doubted that mere beauty would have touched his heart the way she had.
“I’d advise against her.”
Derek almost flinched at the sound of his friend’s voice. “What?” he croaked, then cleared his throat, reluctantly turning his gaze to Tristan.
Once more, an amused grin decorated his friend’s features. “That is Lady Madeline, daughter of the Earl of Carlton. She certainly is a vision,” he echoed Derek’s thoughts; “however, unfortunately, her expectations regarding her future husband are not easily met.”
Although he knew he ought not to ask for it would only encourage more teasing from his friend, Derek could not remain silent. “Expectations?” he asked, momentarily ignoring his long-standing decision not to marry…
…or at least not for years to come…
…or not to a woman considered a peer.
As expected, Tristan chuckled, his eyes aglow with delight as he watched Derek. “She’s already quite famous for refusing marriage proposals. As the daughter of an earl, she has vowed not to marry below her station, meaning anyone below the rank of an earl need not bother to ask for her hand.” Shaking his head, he laughed. “There are a number of bets held at White’s about whether or not she will marry at all, and if so, who will be the lucky…or maybe unlucky…sod.”
Drawing in another deep breath, Derek’s gaze narrowed as it returned to the dark-haired beauty, who now stood up for a cotillion with yet another gentleman he barely looked at.
He ought to have known. She was one of them. One of the few privileged people who considered themselves superior, who could not be bothered to think twice about anything that did not contribute to their own happiness, who had no interest beyond title and reputation, fortune and lineage. No doubt, all she cared for was finding a husband of rank and fortune to ensure her own standing in society and protect said privilege from passing to those less fortunate. It was a small circle, and those in it were determined to keep it that way.
As he watched her, Derek barely noticed that the space next to him was now empty. He was hardly aware of his friend striding toward the other side of the room. He failed to see the crowd that had bothered him not too long ago.
All he saw was her.
And for a long time, he allowed himself to watch her as he could not deny that that was precisely what his heart wanted. Why, he could not say, and he did not dare dwell on it for fear knowing the answer would make it all the harder to walk away.
And walk away, he must.
And yet, Derek could not help the disappointment that seized his heart, and he realised that it bothered him to think of Lady Madeline that way. Strangely enough, he wanted her to be different, to see beyond a person’s superficial attributes and judge them for who they truly were.
Him, namely.
Still, as he looked at her, he knew that the barely notable strain that seemed to rest on her features as she smiled and laughed was only conjured by his own desire for it to be exactly as he wished. It was not real, not true. Nor was the dull gleam in her eyes that spoke of annoyance rather than amusement, exhaustion rather than enthusiasm.
Forcing his gaze to abandon her, Derek turned away, his eyes sweeping over the crowd. He caught sight of Tristan, dancing with a golden-haired beauty, both gazing at each other with such devotion that a touch of jealousy pinched Derek’s heart. He barely noticed that his hands were balled into fists, the sinews standing out white as he tried to fight off the sense of disappointment and loss that swept over him.
And then he saw him.
Townsend.
The Earl of Townsend.
At the sight of him, every muscle in Derek’s body tensed to the point of breaking. His teeth gritted together painfully, and his heartbeat pounded in his ears, drowning out the music and laughter echoing around him.
How dare he attend a ball and act as though nothing had happened? How dare he continue as though he had not−?
Closing his eyes, Derek forced the bile that rose back down his throat, trying to reason with the rage that had seized him so unexpectedly. Nothing he did would make the slightest difference. He could storm over and beat the man to a pulp, and yet, it would not help. It would not change anything. Townsend was untouchable. After all, he was a peer.
A bloody peer!
Renewed anger and indignation heated his veins, sending fire through his body. And yet, he remained calm for he knew that those who acted without thought, without reason, without control would not survive.
And he had a family to think of.
He would not abandon them by doing something foolish.
“Ask her to dance.”
Blinking, Derek stopped, for a moment unable to comprehend the words echoing to his ears. Then he turned to look at his friend, who had reappeared beside him. “Who?” Derek frowned, his eyes inevitably drifting to the lady with the raven-black hair.
“Not her,” Tristan hissed as he jerked his chin to the side, indicating the golden-haired lady he had danced with only moments before. “Her.”
Only now, she was standing up with another man, and although Derek did not know him, he could tell from the predatory gleam in his eyes that he was a hunter, a rake. “Why?” he asked nonetheless, needing to buy time to force his emotions back into the box he usually kept them locked away in.
“So that Cullingwood will leave her alone,” Tristan snapped, clearly agitated.
“Then you dance with her,” Derek huffed, in no mood to humour his friend. However, the strained look on Tristan’s face told him how deeply the golden-haired lady had affected him.
“I can’t,” Tristan grumbled. “I already danced with her once, and the evening is barely half over. I cannot lay claim to her for the rest of the night or people will talk.”
“So?” Derek prompted, remembering how his friend had teased him before, determined to return the favour.
As expected, Tristan rolled his eyes. “So, I need you to intercept her before Cullingwood can lead her off the dance floor. Besides it would be a good opportunity for you to mingle. Since you have no interest in her, this should not be too difficult for you.”
Ignoring the ache in his own heart, Derek allowed the touch of a smirk to show on his face. “What makes you think I’m not interested in her?” he asked, watching his friend’s face closely out of the corner of his eye.
Once more, as expected, Tristan’s head jerked up, shock evident in his narrowed eyes as his hands involuntarily balled into fists.
Delighted to have hit his mark, Derek chuckled. “She truly made an impression on you, didn’t she?”
“Yes, she did,” Tristan snapped, impatience only too visible in his blue eyes. “Now, go.”
Derek drew in a deep breath, unable to deny his friend such a heart-felt request. “Fine,” he grumbled, equally unable to keep the annoyance he felt out of his voice as he strode forward, waiting until the dance ended before he stepped up to the lady who so obviously had stolen Tristan’s heart. He could only hope she was worth it.
As they stood up together, Derek breathed a sigh of relief when she showed no interest in conversing with him. Instead, her gaze drifted around the room, allowing him to return to his own observations. Torn between his seething rage toward Townsend and utter disappointment as well as fascination regarding Lady Madeline, Derek thought his heart would give out when the last notes of the music finally drifted away, and Townsend approached Lady Madeline, bowing to her and asking for the next dance.
Staring at them for the better part of a minute as though waiting for the hallucination to disappear, Derek finally cleared his throat, reminding himself that whatever happened next was none of his concern. And so, with a last regretful look, he turned around and walked away, wishing he could believe his own words to be true.
After all, was it not the utmost duty of a gentleman−peer or not−to protect those in peril?