March, 1818, London

Lionel sat down behind the massive oak desk in his office. After nearly eight months away, it felt odd to be back. This self-imposed banishment had taken place in Ireland, as it had four years before, following that first fatal duel. As with last time, he’d drowned his sins in liquor and in the bed of Deirdre MacBride, with an emphasis on the liquor.

Now it was time to return to real life—to the responsibilities that required his attention. Namely, attending to Lady Emmaline Townsend.

His butler, Tulk, an exceptionally tall fellow two years Lionel’s senior, came to the doorway. “I beg your pardon, my lord, but His Grace, the Duke of Clare has arrived.”

“Show him in.” Lionel had arrived yesterday and sent a note to his closest friend. There were others he ought to notify of his arrival; however, that task, which he wasn’t particularly looking forward to, could wait.

The duke strode into his office wearing the enigmatic smile that made female hearts seize. “Welcome back. I hope you won’t take this badly, but I’m surprised to see you. I would’ve expected you to stay in Ireland until the summer at least.” He paused, his gaze darting to the side. “Like last time.”

The last time Lionel had killed someone in a duel. Every time he thought of that, or the most recent one, it was like a knife twisting in his gut. Duels were supposed to be about honor and grace. Yes, death was possible, but it seemed a terrible way to move on from this life. “My presence was requested.”

West’s brow arched as he sat down in front of Lionel’s desk. “Indeed? It must have been important to have pulled you away from Mrs. MacBride.”

Lionel thought briefly of his mistress in Dublin, of her lush, dark hair and soft, welcoming arms. He’d appreciated her comfort, but the guilt had overwhelmed him, and by midwinter, he’d stopped going to her bed. In some ways, coming back to London had been a relief. In others, it was rubbing salt in the wound he deserved to suffer for eternity.

“I was ready to return,” Lionel said. “Tell me what I’ve come back to. Am I persona non grata?”

West cocked his head to the side, considering. “It’s only the start of the Season, so it’s hard to tell. I suppose you’ll find out in the next few days, when the invitations come.”

“If they come.” Lionel had no illusions. And part of him—a good part of him—didn’t think he deserved anything but scorn and censure. He braced himself to ask the next question. But it had to be asked. “What do you know of Lady Townsend?”

West exhaled, his hands splaying over the arms of the chair before he fixed Lionel with a probing stare. “You want the truth, of course.”

“Nothing less.” Lionel knew that West’s wife was a friend of Lady Townsend’s. They’d become friendly at a house party back when Lady Townsend had simply been Miss Forth-Hodges. Lionel had been at that party but had paid little attention to the attractive blonde who’d eloped with the hotheaded Viscount Townsend.

“She’s living with her parents and, as expected, has been in mourning. She doesn’t go out, but Ivy has seen her, of course. She enjoys playing with Leah.”

“How is your daughter?”

The best description for the expression that overtook Lionel’s face was lovestruck. “She is beyond anything I could have imagined.”

It warmed Lionel’s decaying heart to see his friend so happy. That he’d gone from Lothario to joyfully married was surely some sort of miracle. Perhaps Lionel could hope for a similar transformation. Was it too much to hope that he could go from murderer to husband and father someday?

Yes.

West tapped his fingers on the arm of the chair. “You’re prepared for the notoriety? Now more than ever you’ll be called the Duke of Danger.”

Ah yes, that silly nickname he’d been given because of his reputation for dueling. “Better than the Duke of Death.” He cringed.

West’s brow creased. “I hope you aren’t torturing yourself. You gave Townsend ample opportunity to avoid taking weapons. And he did shoot first.” West studied him a moment. “Not that anyone knows that.”

West hadn’t asked a question, but his statement held a challenge.

“You understand why no one can know?” Lionel was certain he could trust his friend, but there was no understating the importance of this secret.

“You’ve more honor in your little finger than most men will ever have. Which is why you shouldn’t judge yourself too harshly.”

Lionel wasn’t sure that was even possible, given what he’d done—what he’d taken from Lady Townsend. “While I appreciate your concern, until you’ve experienced what I have, I would kindly ask you to refrain from offering advice.”

West gave a reluctant nod. “I don’t think any less of you, not that you’ll care about my opinion. And that’s probably best.” He offered a self-deprecating smile. “I’d have done the same—protecting a friend. You’re a better man than you give yourself credit for, and I will kindly ask you to refrain from trying to change my mind.”

Lionel wasn’t entirely satisfied with West’s response regarding Townsend’s widow. “We strayed from our topic. What else do you know of Lady Townsend? Is she well?”

“Ivy worries about her. She hopes her mourning period will conclude soon and has encouraged her to participate in the Season at least minimally. You’re awfully concerned about her.”

This pricked Lionel’s ire. “As I should be.” He took a deep breath and confided in his friend, “She’s the one who requested my presence.”

“Hell and the devil. She wrote to you?”

Lionel nodded. He’d committed her short, terse missive to memory.

He’d booked passage the very next day, and here he was. Fulfilling the promise he’d made to her was of the utmost importance. He owed her whatever she asked for—and likely much more.

“What did she say?” West prodded.

Lionel looked up from his desk. He hadn’t told West—or anyone—about the pledge he’d made to her. It seemed a private thing between them. “Nothing, really. She simply requested my presence.”

“Well, now I’m curious as hell. And won’t the gossipmongers have a field day with that.”

Lionel frowned. “I highly doubt she shared her request, and I certainly won’t be doing so. Do I really have to ask you to keep your mouth shut?”

West stiffened, looking affronted. “Have you ever known me to spread rumors?”

“No.”

West scrutinized him for a long moment.

“What?” Lionel asked rather peevishly.

“You’re wound tighter than a new clock. You weren’t like this last time.”

“I’d only killed one opponent then.” Ice flowed down Lionel’s spine. “Each one takes a toll.”

“I can’t tell if you’re employing a rather dark sense of humor,” West said.

Honestly, Lionel couldn’t either. He’d done that last time because it had made things bearable. That and Deirdre’s expert care. She’d nursed him from the edge of despair. This time, however, he’d been too far gone for her to reach.

Lionel waved dismissively. “There’s no humor to be found in any of this.”

“No,” West said slowly, dragging the word out. “But you can’t live the rest of your days under a cloud of self-loathing.”

“Can’t I?” Lionel laughed, but it too was without humor. “I will say that I shall never fight another duel.” He couldn’t.

West stood, nodding. “Take respite where you can, my friend. There will be plenty of people who will abuse you without you aiding to the cause. Hold your head high with honor and dignity. Your father wouldn’t want you to do anything less.” He gave him a long, lingering look before turning and leaving.

His father. Had West really needed to mention him? Of course he had. He knew how close they’d been, the devastation Lionel had suffered at his death.

Which had led to his first duel. His father had perished from an apoplectic attack at the gaming tables after being accused of cheating by Lord Babcock. Lionel had wasted no time in challenging him to a duel. Ironically, he was the one opponent Lionel had wanted to kill.

At twenty-two, he’d been absolutely gutted by his father’s sudden demise. Anger and grief had overpowered him. He’d dueled Babcock, wounding the man in the arm and rendering it useless for the remainder of his life. He’d died a few years later of an ague.

The loss of his father still weighed on him—it likely always would—but Lionel was glad he wasn’t here to see his son’s transgressions. He might’ve wanted Lionel to hold his head up, but Lionel couldn’t think he would’ve been proud at how things had turned out.

Shaking the maudlin thoughts away, Lionel pulled a piece of parchment from his desk and dipped his quill in the ink.

He stared at the note, even briefer than hers had been. Though a bit less brusque. He considered adding an apology, but she’d made it clear at their last meeting that she’d never accept one from him. Repeating it would probably only insult her, and he wouldn’t dare.

That she’d written to him at all shocked him to his core. He’d never expected to hear from her—she’d said as much. Indeed, he’d wondered how he would avoid her for the rest of their lives. He’d still have to work that out. After he fulfilled whatever she wanted of him, he’d do her the only favor she would accept: keep himself away from her at all costs.

He’d seen her countless times in his mind’s eye as she’d been that day. Pale and cold, her narrow frame encased in black. There hadn’t been a speck of color to her, save her eyes, which were the shade of the sky at midsummer. Except they lacked the glow, the brilliance, of that blue. The color seemed subdued, perhaps by her grief.

And it was all his fault.

Pick yourself up, man! You can’t face her like this—she won’t appreciate your anguish or the gloom you wear like a sodden cloak. Shake it off for the sake of appearances at the very least.

Yes, he could do that. He’d done it before. He knew how to recover from killing a man. You pretended it didn’t haunt the hell out of you. Then at night, when you were awakened by nightmares, you silently screamed.

And, measure by measure, you began to feel normal. The searing pain became a dull ache, and you were even able to bury it for periods of time—banishing it to the recesses of your mind where all agonizing memories lurked for eternity.

He folded the letter and franked the envelope before standing to take it to Tulk. He found the butler in the hall and instructed him to have it delivered immediately.

Lionel returned to his office, eager to learn how he could help the Widow Townsend, while acknowledging it wouldn’t do a thing to ease his guilt.

* * *

Emmaline turned in front of the glass in her chamber. The dark purple silk was a welcome change from the blacks and grays she’d worn the past eight months. The gold of her wedding band glinted in the lamplight. Holding up her hand, she summoned a vision of Geoffrey when he’d slipped it on her finger at Gretna Green.

That had been the happiest day of her life. She knew that because she’d told him so. And yet when she tried to recall the emotions, to feel the joy she’d possessed, she simply couldn’t. Pulling the ring from her finger, she set it on her dressing table. She was ready to move on, which meant leaving him behind.

Thoughts of Geoffrey made her feel cold and empty. And it was all his fault. She’d see him tonight, the blackguard. At last she’d give him the public shaming he deserved. All eyes would be on them at the Tilney ball when she gave him the cut direct.

Thoughts of Axbridge, it seemed, made her feel hot and angry.

Mother swept into her room at that moment, and Emmaline dismissed her maid.

“You are lovely.” Mother’s eye was critical as it swept over Emmaline. “It’s nice to see you in a color again, even if it is so dark. When you said you were ready to venture out, your father and I were most pleased.”

Relieved was probably a better word. Mother had been pestering her about it the past two months, making it clear she and Father wanted Emmaline to participate in the Season. They wanted her to find a new husband.

Emmaline picked up a glove and tugged it over her now-bare left hand. “I admit I will be glad to be out.” She didn’t think she could stand being cooped up here with them any longer. It had been better when they’d been out of town over the winter—their country estate was much larger than their London town house—but now she felt their expectation and lingering disappointment like a weight bearing down upon her shoulders.

“Excellent. Come, your father and I wish to speak with you on the way to the ball.”

Emmaline’s neck pricked. She pulled on her other glove as her mother glided from the chamber. Steeling herself, Emmaline followed her downstairs and outside into the waiting coach.

Facing backward, Emmaline waited for her parents to speak.

Father cleared his throat from the opposite seat. “As you know, your mother and I would like to see you married again.”

“Yes. At the earliest possible time, I believe.” Emmaline should’ve regretted her sarcastic tone, but didn’t.

Mother smiled brightly as if she hadn’t heard Emmaline’s bitterness. “As it happens, we have the perfect suitor in mind.”

Emmaline stifled a groan. Her parents had tried to match her to various gentlemen for years, but Emmaline hadn’t loved any of them. Then she’d met Geoffrey and had loved him. Only he hadn’t been good enough for them.

“I see. Do I know this gentleman?”

“Indeed you do. Sir Duncan Thayer.”

Emmaline coughed, practically choking on her own saliva.

Mother’s brow furrowed. “Are you all right, dear?”

Heavens no! She was… She wasn’t sure what she was, but “all right” wasn’t anywhere close. Sir Duncan was at least twenty years her senior. He had a daughter that was very close to Emmaline’s age—they’d exchanged pleasantries on more than one occasion. Aside from his age, he was horribly unattractive, with a hooked nose, protruding front teeth, and rather fetid breath if the rumors were accurate. Worst of all, he possessed a lecherous nature. Every time she’d met him, he’d looked at her as if she wasn’t wearing any clothes. And he’d done so in front of his daughter. Emmaline suppressed a shudder.

“Sir Duncan is not someone I would wish to marry,” Emmaline said, brushing her hand along her skirt as if she could wipe away the feeling of discomfort thinking of him had wrought.

“Your wishes will not figure into the matter this time,” Father said firmly. “We tried to find you a husband who was acceptable to all of us, and you eloped with a profligate rapscallion.”

Emmaline gritted her teeth. “So nice of you to speak of the dead in such terms.”

“I speak the truth, and well you know it.”

Yes, she did know it, which only made hearing it more distressing.

“Please be reasonable,” Mother said, her tone soft and pleading. “Sir Duncan is wealthy, and he’ll provide very well for you.”

That was of the utmost importance to them of course, since Geoffrey had left her destitute and debt ridden. Her parents had satisfied some of the bills, but there were still others that needed to be addressed.

“He’s old and hideous, and he makes my skin crawl.”

“Yes, it’s true he’s not the most attractive of men, but he is still quite robust for his age,” Mother reasoned. “You like his daughter well enough.”

Emmaline had to admit that Judith was pleasant. “I’m not marrying his daughter.”

“Don’t be clever,” Father warned. “Anyway, this is a moot discussion. It’s all been arranged. Sir Duncan has already promised a settlement, which will account for the remainder of Townsend’s debts, and the banns will be read this Sunday.”

“What?” Emmaline practically slid from the seat as her body turned to jelly. “You can’t do that.”

“I already have. Tonight you’ll dance with him so he can begin his courtship, and tomorrow he’ll come to the house to pay his respects and sign the marriage contract.”

The coach came to a brief stop, but Emmaline felt as if she were still moving, tumbling headfirst into a dark abyss from which there was no escape. She looked at her mother, who didn’t even have the grace to meet her gaze.

It was several minutes as the coach lurched slowly up the queue. The silence thickened until Emmaline was certain she would choke on it. By the time the door opened, she was incredibly grateful for the cool air.

Once they descended, Mother paused to clasp her hand. “It will be all right, dear. You’ll see. Sir Duncan is most enthusiastic. Won’t it be nice to have a husband who values you?”

“Geoffrey valued me,” she said quietly. But even she didn’t believe it. He’d spent most of his time gambling and perhaps with other women. She hadn’t been certain of the latter but had begun to suspect. When he did spend time with Emmaline, he was tense and irritable. It was as if the man she’d eloped with had never existed.

“Ready?” Mother asked, seeming not to have heard Emmaline. Neither did she wait for a response as she turned to take her husband’s arm.

Emmaline followed them up the steps, feeling as though she were headed toward her executioner.

And there was no time to come up with a plan to evade her father’s scheme.

Once inside the ballroom, Emmaline put as much distance between herself and her parents as possible. Father took himself off to the gaming room while Mother joined a group of middle-aged women, several of whom kept shooting glances toward Emmaline. If she had a pound for every curious look and assessing stare, she’d have enough money to pay off Geoffrey’s debts and she could tell her parents to take their marriage plan and—

A hush fell over the ballroom. Was it already time? Emmaline hadn’t been paying attention. She’d been too wrapped up in her new problem.

Problem? That was an understatement. It was an unmitigated disaster.

“The Marquess of Axbridge.” The majordomo’s introduction rang over the ballroom. Emmaline turned, eyeing him as he descended the stairs.

He was beyond handsome in elegant black and crisp white. A dark gray waistcoat gave her the impression that he was in mourning. How dare he?

His blond hair was brushed back from his aristocratic features—a slightly long, straight nose, strong, square jaw, and lips that were made for sin. She mentally scolded herself. She did not care what his lips were made for.

This was the moment she’d planned, the hour of her revenge. He paused midway down the staircase and scanned the ballroom, his gaze ultimately landing on her. Though he was perhaps thirty feet away, she felt the weight of his stare like a mantle she was desperate to cast off.

A collection of murmurs broke the silence, but all eyes were turned toward him—and her. A void formed as people moved aside to allow the marquess a straight path to Emmaline. Oh yes, this was exactly as she’d hoped.

He concluded his descent and made his way toward her. His progress seemed slow or maybe it was just that she was savoring every moment.

A movement to the left caught her eye. Sir Duncan, stationed partway down the makeshift aisle, leaned forward, jutting his head out from the line of people. He turned and looked at Emmaline, his lips spreading into a ghastly smile.

Bloody hell.

The dancing was about to start, and it would be a waltz. Sir Duncan would surely ask her.

She blinked and refocused on Axbridge. He was incredibly handsome, but after Sir Duncan, he was downright spectacular. He came to a stop before her and offered the deepest bow she’d ever beheld.

“My lady,” he murmured.

Now.

Now was the moment.

Why wasn’t she turning her back to him?

“Dance with me,” she whispered, her voice low and commanding.

“Of course.”

He offered his arm, and she placed her hand on the dark wool of his coat. As they made their way to the dance floor, people began speaking again. First it was a dull scattering of whispers, but then the sound grew to a buzz that grated against her ears.

They took their place, and others scrambled to join them. It was as if they’d all forgotten this was a ball and not a spectacle.

But then hadn’t she orchestrated this to be a spectacle?

Indeed. However, things were not going according to plan. At all.

He set his hand at her waist, and for a moment, she simply stood there looking straight ahead, which meant she was staring at his cravat. It was a very nice cravat, blindingly white and expertly knotted.

The music started, and he took her hand. His grip was firm and warm, even with gloves separating their flesh. She set her hand against his shoulder, and they began to move.

“This is what you wanted, then?” he asked. “A dance?”

“No, I wanted to give you the cut direct.” She lifted her gaze to his.

“Yet you didn’t.” He steered her across the floor with elegant precision. “Why not?”

She looked out at the ballroom. Those who weren’t dancing were staring at them and talking, their heads bent together. Her eyes connected with Sir Duncan again. He wasn’t dancing either. He stood with her mother, who was talking rather animatedly.

Damn everything.

Emmaline looked up at her partner and didn’t think before letting the words tumble from her mouth. “Because I need you to marry me.”