“Wherein a wedding is planned … quickly.”

Crecy hid in the shadows of the ballroom. She’d only just managed to evade Lord Lancaster, whose tumble into the snow had apparently not cooled his enthusiasm. Worse still was a gloriously handsome man, a Baron Marchmain, by all accounts, otherwise known as August Bright.

With hair the colour of ripe corn and quite lovely green eyes, he was really something to behold. But Crecy did not want to behold him, and, try as she might, could not seem to get that point across, and she had tried. Belle had warned her that he was a notorious rake and most certainly wasn’t interested in marriage. As Crecy certainly wasn’t interested in him, she saw little point in wasting the evening flirting with him, which she was no good at, in any case. So here she was, cowering behind a potted palm.

It was really rather lowering.

Biting her lip, as she knew Belle would be furious with her, she wondered if perhaps she might escape and find sanctuary in Lord Winterbourne’s library. If Belle discovered she had gone off alone again, she’d be in hot water, but surely it was better than playing hide-and-go-seek with blasted Lord Marchmain. Crecy sighed and dared a glance from between the fronds of the palm to discover some kind of commotion at the far end of the ballroom. With a frown, she wondered what was going on and experienced a shiver of unease.

Belle had been acting very strangely tonight. Crecy had put it down to the fact that it was their last night here and likely their only chance to snag a suitable husband. So here she was cowering in a corner whilst Belle … Crecy had the uncomfortable sensation of growing suddenly very hot, and just as quickly doused with cold water.

Oh, Belle!

By the time she had forced her way through the excited crowd and found a familiar face, fear was clawing at her heart with sharp claws. Please don’t let Belle have sacrificed her own happiness for her sake. Crecy couldn’t bear the idea, but she knew Belle well enough to know that she would do just that. With her chest so tight she could hardly speak, she saw the familiar figure of Lady Seymour Russell. The old woman was something of a tyrant and a towering figure among the ton despite only having married a mere Baron. She had a sharp tongue and a sharper wit, and had, for reasons neither of them could fathom, taken Belle and Crecy under her wing.

“Lady Russell,” she cried out, by now breathless and anxious. “Have you seen Belle?”

The great lady smirked, an expression that did not ease Crecy’s anxiety one bit.

“I should say so,” she said, chuckling a little and leaning in to whisper in her ear. “Your sister is quite something, young lady.” Crecy looked up at her, meeting the cool grey eyes with confusion. “Yes, she played that very well, indeed, and I think they’ll deal admirably together.”

“What?” Crecy shrieked in alarm. “Who? Don’t tell me she’s accepted Lord Nibley?”

“Nibley?” Lady Russell repeated frowning for a moment. “Oh,” she said, her face clearing as she nodded and Crecy felt like screaming at her. “You mean that academic fellow, always droning on about rocks?”

Crecy agreed that had been who she meant, growing ever more frantic and feeling as though she might cry. Where was Belle?

“No, not him,” Lady Russell replied, shaking her head. “She’s going to marry Winterbourne.”

Crecy gaped at her, incredulous.

“Close your mouth, gel,” Lady Russell scolded, looking so severe that Crecy complied immediately. “Young ladies don’t gawp.”

“Winterbourne?” Crecy repeated, her voice faint. “The marquess?”

Gabriel DeMorte’s despised cousin.

Lady Russell nodded, grinning at her with great satisfaction. “A fine match on both sides, if you ask me,” she said. “Come along, find me some champagne, will you, I mean to celebrate.”

***

Crecy dithered by Belle’s bed. Her sister looked rather like she’d suffered a severe shock, only Crecy couldn’t tell if it was a happy one or if the poor girl was terrified. She’d clearly slept little; hardly surprising after the furore that had ensued last night, and that Belle had instigated it …well, Crecy admitted to being a little shocked. Her straight-laced sister setting out to snare a husband … who would have thought it?

She moved forward, removing the breakfast tray that Belle was clearly far too distracted to touch, and clambered onto the bed, the heavy skirts of her riding habit impeding her movements.

She simply couldn’t tell what Belle was feeling, and her mumbled answers didn’t help. Was she simply shocked?

“You do like him, don’t you, Belle?” Crecy demanded, feeling a little desperate.

Belle looked up at her, as though she’d forgotten she was there at all.

“Oh. Er … I … I’m sure we’ll deal famously together,” she said after a moment, sounding quite certain of herself and much more Belle-like.

Crecy bit her lip, wanting to be reassured but still feeling uneasy. “But I thought you meant to have Lord Nibley?”

Belle nodded, flushing a rather violent shade of scarlet. “I did,” she admitted.

“Then what …

Belle held out her hand, a look of desperation in her eyes. “Do you mind if we discuss this later? I have the most dreadful headache.”

Crecy agreed with alacrity, though she did make sure to ask if Belle needed anything before she left. Though she knew she was selfish in the extreme, if Belle didn’t need her, she had a whole day free.

And she meant to put it to good use.

***

It was a simple thing to ditch the groom assigned to chaperone her. Though she had experienced a qualm, and rather wondered if perhaps she’d lost her nerve for riding, as it had been some years since she’d last had the opportunity. But Crecy had always been a fearless rider, and, to her delight, nothing had changed. Riding had been one of her greatest pleasures, and she had never despised her own wretched excuse for a father more than when he’d sold her beloved horse to pay his gambling debts. It was at that point that Crecy had known that those good men, nice men like her father, those charming men who smiled in your face and said all the right things … they were not to be trusted.

Far better a man you knew was set on ruining you and was honest about it, you could deal with that head on. You knew where you stood and what you had to lose. Far worse a man who crawled into your heart with pretty little lies and sweet deceits and whose promises were worth nothing but dust.

The morning and the countryside stretched out before her, full of promise and expectation. Longwold was situated high on the Cotswold escarpment, and a vista of rolling hills and thick woodland spread out, all sparkling white under a crisp blue sky. She could see the Mendips, those limestone hills to the south of Bath, and remembered Lord Nibley at dinner one night. He’d grown almost animated whilst speaking of the carboniferous limestone that was found in abundance here. She had been briefly interested when he’d touched on the variety of Neolithic, Iron Age, and Bronze Age barrows to be found in the area, but sadly, these intriguing sites did not hold the appeal for him that a lifeless rock clearly did.

Leaning forward, she urged the horse on, revelling in the cold wind on her face, so sharp it made her eyes water. Her hair whipped about in the breeze, the jaunty green feather in her hat dancing madly as they flew across the thin covering of snow. She would need to make haste if she was to get to Damerel House and return before anyone noticed her gone.

***

Gabriel looked up as Piper came into the room, bearing a small silver tray with a letter upon it. The arrival of the post was the only exception to the do not disturb rule that was adhered to the moment his study door closed - unless it was a dire emergency.

“This arrived for you, my lord,” he said as Gabriel reached for the letter. “It’s early, isn’t it? I hope there is nothing amiss with the young lady?”

Gabriel sent him a look that strongly urged the man to mind his own damn business and broke the seal with a frown. Waiting until his obviously concerned butler had closed the door, he opened the folded sheet with curiosity. Piper was correct, of course, she wrote on the first of every month, usually, with the exception of his birthday.

 

My dear friend,

I am to be your neighbour!

Gabriel dropped the letter like it had scorched him, staring at the words as vexation burst to life. Blast the girl! What did she mean by threatening to seek him out? Was she utterly lost to propriety? Except she wasn’t a girl any longer, was she? He had been aware for some months of a subtle change in the tenor of those letters. She must be twenty by now, twenty-one, even? He glared at the extravagant, looping writing, for once not crammed in to fill and cross every inch of space on the sheet. It had been written in haste, which meant …

He got to his feet, taking a hasty step away from the letter as if it had the power to contaminate him somehow, to shatter his peace of mind … and then he made the connection.

By God, the blonde outside Longwold, the way she had stared at him - as if she had a right to …

That was Lucretia Holbrook?

Gabriel swallowed, a feeling of unease creeping over his skin. No, no, no. The last thing he needed was some pretty fool with ridiculous romantic notions about him trying to trap him into marriage. Though at this point, he had to admit that the young woman seemed perfectly aware of all of his vices; she had never had the slightest hesitation in questioning him about them, after all. Sometimes the things she wrote, and asked, shocked him deeply. She clearly didn’t have an ounce of shame, and even less good sense. Though his mouth quirked a little, involuntarily, as he remembered how some of those imprudent questions had made him smile. Nonetheless, unease prickled over his skin.

“Piper!” he yelled, refolding the letter with care and putting it in a large wooden box to peruse again later, when the coast was clear. For now, he needed to get away until the wretched woman had gone.

The butler appeared at his door, his face full of curiosity. Well, the fellow could keep his blasted nose out of Gabriel’s affairs.

“There has been some kind of house party at Longwold. Do you know when the guests leave?” he asked, ignoring the man’s disappointment at being kept out of the secret and refusing to let him know why Miss Holbrook had written him an extra letter.

“Yes, my lord, I believe they will be leaving today.”

“Today?” Gabriel repeated, breathing a sigh of relief. So he only need make himself scarce for a few hours and he’d be in the clear. “Have Typhon saddled for me, I’m going out.”

The butler nodded and retreated, leaving Gabriel to stare into the fire, trying hard to ignore an irrational surge of anger towards Miss Holbrook. He didn’t want her here, didn’t want to put a face to the strange and oddly intimate letters that arrived without fail each month. It was unsettling and … out of the ordinary, and that was unacceptable. His life followed strict timetables, rules and rituals that kept the days ticking past and him on an even keel. Too many deviations from the norm, and he started to feel adrift and anxious and … out of control, and that … that made him angry.

He glowered at the flames, the rising heat fierce against his face. Well, she’d be gone soon, perhaps she’d already left, and then he could relax and concentrate on what next to do about Edward Greyston. For his father would not let him live in peace until he’d kept his promise and destroyed him.

***

Crecy rode hard, the powerful beast beneath her sweating and blowing clouds as she pulled up, her heart pounding with exhilaration and trepidation as a huge house came into view. It was built of squared and dressed limestone, like so many of the region, and dominated the landscape. From her position on the ridge and looking down, it had an H-shaped main body, with a projecting rounded porch and portico in the centre supported by paired Doric columns. It spoke of power and wealth, but Crecy cared not for any of that, all that mattered was that it belonged to him. This was the home of Gabriel Greyston, the Viscount DeMorte, this was where he had been born and grown into a man. This place had shaped him, for good and for ill, and she wanted desperately to uncover its secrets. All of them.

Ignoring the prickle of unease at the back of her neck that told her that her presence was likely unwelcome, she urged the horse on again, moving at a steady trot now as she drank in the scene below her, committing it to memory.

A flicker of movement to her right caught her attention and she turned from the house and heard her own gasp as she saw a man on a powerful horse riding further along the ridge, heading in the opposite direction. Just before he turned and disappeared, the horse was checked, the man’s head coming up and staring at her.

It was him! And he’d seen her.