Bellview Manor, Chiswick, England 1818

It was the unhappiest news imaginable.

Elliot George Ashbrook, the ninth Duke of Hartford was about to marry or make an announcement of some sorts that he was ready to settle down. All the marriage-minded mammas of the season would be deliriously overjoyed, and then the hunt for who would secure such a worthy and estimable match would commence with genteel vigor. Society would be atwitter for months, and all the newspapers would write about this unprecedented move by the duke. For so long society had declared him a scoundrel, a rake of the first order.

Miss Emma Amelia Fitzgerald pressed a fist to her chest as if that would stop the sudden ache that settled heavily in her heart. Elliot was to find a bride. The hand that had been poised to knock on the door to the study lowered. She had to gather her composure before facing her brother and his guest. It would not do for the duke to see the sheen of tears in her eyes or the pain that must be evident on a face that many had declared to be expressive. After all, it had been she who had rejected his offers of marriage several years ago. Although she did not regret her decision and despite her current situation a small part of her dearly wished he would renew his addresses. He had not asked her again, and her pride, doubts, and fear had prevented her from approaching him. Years had passed, eight to be exact. And she had realized he must have accepted she was impaired and unmarriageable.

“I did not realize you’d hoped to settle down,” her brother, Anthony Fitzgerald, said. “I thought you cherished your liberty greatly.”

“I’ve decided it’s time,” Elliot drawled. “I am nine and twenty and not getting any younger. I’ll signal my intention by attending Lady Wiles’ ball in two weeks’ time.”

Elliot hadn’t visited Bellview Manor in almost six months. The duke’s voice was richer and deeper, more confident than she remembered.

A rough sound of disbelief issued from her bother. “You are entirely serious. I cannot credit it. You have been a right rogue these last seasons. The polite world will be shocked and delighted. Do you have someone in mind?”

There was a contemplative pause.

“Perhaps Lady Andrea Sutton. She appears to be the most accomplished debutante of this season. I had the pleasure to dance with her last season and found her to be quite good-natured and intelligent.”

“Not to mention stunningly beautiful and perfect.”

Perfect. Everything Emma was not after the terrible carriage accident. The one her brother still blamed himself for because it had limited her prospects for marriage and a future. And because it had taken the man she loved…still loved if she was honest, the duke himself. Except when she had fallen hopelessly in love with him, he hadn’t been a duke. They had been friends, neighbors, and everything then had seemed so simple, her place in the world defined and understood. Her expectations of marrying Elliot then and starting a family had been real and attainable, but in an instant, it had all been ripped away to be replaced by broken limbs and a hopeless heart. Her only solace was a change of scene, which she would achieve by travelling to Boston.

“Perfection is not a criterion of mine, but it does not hurt that she presents a very pretty picture.”

There was a slight easing in her heart at that declaration.

Anthony said something she could not decipher, and she was so tempted to press her ear to the wooden panel. It was unforgivably rude to eavesdrop, but she consoled her conscience by recalling her need to gather composure before facing her brother and the duke. It pained her to admit even for a second she wanted to retreat to the music room and resume playing the pianoforte. But she had never been a coward, and she would not start on this auspicious visit.

“Will I see you next week at Lady Waverly’s house party?” Elliot asked.

Emma stiffened. That scandalous house party had been on the lips of many in society for weeks. The countess’s yearly house party and her masquerade ball were notorious and only the rogues, the scoundrels, and the most scandalous women of the season attended. Though from what Emma had gathered from the scandal sheets over the years, genteel ladies had donned masks and wigs to attend and had fallen to ruin.

“You know you won’t find a wife there.”

There was a low chuckle of masculine amusement. “That will be for pleasure,” the duke drawled. “The countess’s parties are always so amusing. I plan to indulge with a willing lady or two before I make my intentions to find a bride this season known.”

A willing lady or two? The duke was indeed the worst sort of scoundrel. And her older brother’s best friend. And the man she still loved with her entire soul.

“Why bother? You left the last masquerade without a lady on your arm, and the previous two before that if I recall correctly.”

An annoyed grunt came from the duke. “There should be enough daring beauties to satisfy my discriminating tastes there this year.”

The sound of glasses clinking echoed.

“How is Emma?”

Her heart shivered at the mention of her name.

“Still refusing to marry and insisting on taking an extended trip to America. I cannot imagine why she would want to visit that wild place.”

The silence that lingered prompted her to lift her fist to knock on the door once more, but instead, she ran her hand over her light-blue, muslin, day dress smoothing non-existing wrinkles. She then took a deep breath and closed her eyes running a quick mental check over herself. Emma patted her stunning, bright red hair ensuring the artful chignon her maid had arranged had no loose wisps. She was in a presentable state to face him. She raised her hand to knock once again and paused as the duke’s voice filtered through the door once more.

“You do not wish for her to leave?”

Was it her fanciful imagination that Elliot’s voice sounded out of sorts?

“No, we all want to see her content in her own home with a husband and children. Father and I have discussed it. He will forbid her travelling.”

Outrage snapped through Emma. Why did papa insist on ruling her life even though she was of age? It was not as if she were travelling to people who she knew nothing about. Her older sister, Elizabeth, had married an American business magnate and was blissfully settled in Boston. She had invited Emma over to meet their society, confident she would find some measure of happiness there. Though Emma doubted any such happiness would exist for her, she was thrilled with the notion of leaving England’s shores for an extended period. Her family had not been happy to receive her news.

“What are her chances of making a respectable alliance?”

“At five and twenty? Little to none. There is something else,” he muttered, sounding a trifle apprehensive. “Lord Coventry has declared his wish to marry her, and our father has agreed. Emma has no notion of the alliance.”

Shock froze her. She had not heard of this outrage.

“Coventry! The man can’t be a day under sixty.” There was a thoughtful pause, and then the duke said, “Will she have him? You know she is very decided with her opinions.”

“Deuced stubborn and fanciful, that’s what she is.”

“Still, the old earl cannot be acceptable. Emma will not be happy with your decision. Hell, I’m not happy with it,” Elliot said gruffly, a vein of surprise in his tone.

“The task of arranging her a proper match is harder than I’d imagined. She does not make it easy.”

“You know it to be more. She is still hurt from…”

Her stomach knotted at the mention of her accident. Unable to tolerate the tone their discussion was taking, she knocked firmly and entered, moving carefully.

“Anthony dearest, I—” She paused, quite dramatically. “Your grace, I wasn’t aware you had called.”

Emma shifted to face him fully. She wasn’t prepared for the impact of sensations upon seeing him. Pleasure and nerves. The duke’s tall frame was one of powerful, lithe elegance. His dark hair was perfectly groomed, and his beautiful golden eyes ensnared her. His dark lashes were velveted soft and so long, she noticed as he bowed over her hand. His hands were strong and firm, and she was relieved when he let go of her fingers because the fleeting touch sent a thrill up her spine. Elliot was held to be driven and intense, reputed to be brilliant in business, a thing which had shocked society for a duke had no reason to be doing anything but being a duke. Even after eight years of mingling with the ton, Elliot was an enigma to both the press and society and unfortunately, a bit reserved and cold. Especially towards her.

Still, a frightening surge of longing and an ache travelled through her heart. He had only to be in the same room, and the response came unbidden.

The arrogant lift of his eyebrow and the amused slant of his lips said he knew her to be lying. Then his eyes dropped to her walking stick, and her gut tightened. It was always the first place someone looked, at the stick, and then her limp, and then pity would cross their features, and their voices would soften dramatically as if she were addled and they needed to speak with care.

How wretched it made her feel. Only a few people conversed with her without any undertones of pity and speculation.

“How wonderful to see you again, Miss Fitzgerald.”

How formal he was, as if there hadn’t been a time they had swum together in the pond, as if he hadn’t taught her to fish, and as if he hadn’t kissed her once, and stolen her heart away.

Relief filled her that he sounded normal, and his eyes had returned to her face. Not that he had ever treated her as an invalid, but it had been a while since they had cause to be in each other’s company. She had never been able to predict his responses to her entirely. “It has been six months,” she said pertly, wincing at the soft reprimand in her voice.

His expression was faintly amused. “Has it?”

His eyes were the deep gold of a lion, so stunning and unique. There had always been a profound stillness in his gaze, one that she felt she couldn’t touch or understand, one that seemed to hold a thousand secrets. She’d always thought she was fanciful, unsure if the sensation of danger was real or an illusion. They stared at each other until her brother cleared his throat. She flushed and glanced away.

“Forgive me for interrupting you, Anthony. I’ve invited Vicar Marbury, his wife, and delightful daughter to dinner. I trust this is acceptable?”

Her brother scowled. “Do I have to be there? You know how Miss Marbury…she is too attentive.”

Emma thought it served him right for being so odious in encouraging papa once again to select a husband for her, despite her stated wish not to marry. “I’m sure she’ll be charming company.” Emma faced Elliot. “Should I inform the housekeeper to set a place for you as well, Your Grace?”

“Regretfully I must decline. I have a previous engagement I cannot avoid.”

“Of course.” She gave him a small smile that felt too tight. “If I could speak with Anthony for a few minutes in privacy?”

“I was just about to take my leave,” Elliot said smoothly. He dipped his head in a short bow and made his exit.

The door closed firmly on the duke’s departure, and she made her way to the blue damask sofa and lowered herself, carefully arranging her walking stick to the side. She considered her brother for a few moments. It was mortifying to admit she had been eavesdropping, but she could not allow him and papa to decide her life as if she had no thoughts or hopes of her own.

Her family did nothing that did not administer to their own comfort, and it was evident they wanted her off their hands. A peculiar grief darted through her. “I’ve tried not to be a burden despite my limitations.”

He shot her a reproving glance. “You are my sister, and I love you, Emma. You have never been a burden and never will be. You speak nonsense.”

“Then why did you not tell me Papa was speaking with Lord Coventry about marriage? Is that not for your own comfort? For surely you could not believe I have any affection for the earl.”

He raked his fingers through his hair. “I want what is best for you,” he said with soft intensity. “Our family wants what is best for you.”

“That would be allowing me to live my life however it makes me happy, Anthony.”

“Do you not want a family, Emma? Children of your own.”

A surge of longing darted through her heart, and a lump grew in her throat. She wanted a family, love, comfort, security, and happiness. She acknowledged the argument that she was like other women in wanting those things, but there was also an untapped desire that had brewed in her soul over the years. It had grown as she had come to terms with the fact that she was maimed. That part of her desired adventure, something different from the terrible predictability that was her life. Quite often the two needs mashed together painfully inside, disturbing any contentment she found with her current situation. Marrying Coventry when she did not love him, and when she would be the object of his pity and derision was not the sort of life she wanted. “Not with Coventry.”

Her brother’s brows came together in a considering frown. “He is only two and forty. He likes you despite…despite.” He broke off with a frustrated growl.

Emma stood. “Despite my scars which he has not seen? Despite my limping? Despite that, on the days when the cramps are terrible, I use a wheelchair? Despite the fact I may truly never be able to have children? Did you or papa inform him of all the facts when he made his offer?”

His expression hardened. “He will call upon you tomorrow. I expect you to be courteous and give him a fair chance.”

“I cannot promise to be available.”

“You are unreasonable.”

“I am not,” she said firmly. “The last suitor you and papa pushed in my path informed me in no uncertain terms when we wed, I would remain in the country and never venture into society. I hadn’t even accepted his offer, and he was ashamed of my situation. I cannot bear being trapped with anyone who would make me feel inferior and an object to be pitied. Can you assure me Lord Coventry would be different?”

Before her brother could reply, the door opened and in sailed their aunt Beatrice, who despite her short and plump stature, looked very elegant in a dark green riding habit, and matching hat with a decorative dyed feather. Bright blue eyes scanned the drawing room. “How delightful that you are both here! I’ve just arrived from Bath where I left your father and mother taking the waters. I’ve heard the wonderful news that Lord Coventry will be courting you. I thought you would need my guidance, my dear.”

Exasperation rushed through Emma. “Not you too, Aunt Beatrice.”

Her aunt shot her a bird-like look of inquiry. “But this is great news is it not?”

“No, it is not, I have no wish to be courted by Lord Coventry.”

“But he is an earl!”

“My goodness, I’m a trifle tired. I am sure Anthony will explain.” She ambled over to him and pressed a kiss to his cheek. “Thank you for caring, brother, but I do not need you to direct my life, just to love and support me.”

Anthony scowled. “Emma—”

She walked away from his absurd orders, and her aunt’s query of ‘upon my word, have her senses departed her?’. She moved out into the hallway, closing the door softly on her exit. Her family wanted her to be happy. She supposed one had to make allowances for that. But she would not let them dictate her life when she was of age, and had an inheritance of five thousand pounds and could manage her affairs herself. They evidently thought her an invalid and were willing to foist her onto the first man who showed some interest in her.

Except for Elliot…

Her throat tightened with remembered pain and happiness.

The acquaintance between herself and the duke had been longstanding, except he hadn’t been the powerful and arrogant duke of Hartford then, merely the charming, good-natured, and ambitious Mr. Elliot Winthrop.

She was the second daughter of a gentleman, the viscount Sherwood, and Elliot was the son of the local doctor. He’d always treated her with kindness and pleasant sweetness, never objecting as her brother had done when she insisted on riding astride in breeches with them across the fens or swimming in the lake in her chemisette, their laughter ringing across windswept grasslands. He hadn’t thought her improper or ill-bred as her brother had often lamented, but had merely encouraged her to be daring and true to her own nature.

She had been fifteen at the time, to Elliot’s nineteen, and had been quite desperately in love with her brother’s friend. She had known without a doubt he was the man she would marry, and had believed he felt a similar attachment.

Life had seemed happy, then the curricle race had happened, and everything had been unbearable for months. When Elliot had asked her to marry him while she lay hurt in bed, with pity in his eyes, she had said no for she had loved him too much to saddle him with a broken wife. He’d asked again, and she’d said no. She’d cared deeply that the two doctors her papa had consulted with, had declared the possibility of her never walking or having children because of her injuries. Her family had objected most passionately for he’d had no connections and wealth and had aspired to visit Edinburgh to study and become a doctor like his father. That aspect hadn’t mattered to Emma though. He had renewed his offer several times over the next few months, and she had refused until he had stopped asking.

Then a few months later what had seemed like an army of solicitors and the Duchess of Hartford had tracked him down to Devon. Her Elliot had been the next in line for a dukedom.

‘Don’t forget me,’ she’d whispered fervently when he had been collected by the duchess whom Emma had dubbed the dragon.

‘Will you…remember me?’ she had asked with such aching sadness.

He’d given her a brief, wordless nod. Instead of walking away he stood for a timeless moment. “Wait for me, promise.”

Her heart had soared with gladness. “I will,” she’d replied, though knowing in her heart once he glimpsed the world before him, he wouldn’t care to remember the broken daughter of an impoverished viscount. Eager to keep her promise to Elliot, she had written to him often, but he had been an indifferent correspondent, only replying to a few of the dozens of letters she had posted to him.

Of course, he had become imminently suitable to her family after it was confirmed he was the next duke of Hartford.

And now he was about to announce to polite society his intention to take a wife.

Emma made her way down the quiet hall at an unhurried pace. She paused at the bottom of the stairs, resting her head briefly on the banister. Why did her heart feel so laden with grief and regrets? It had taken years before she had been able to imagine a future without Elliot. She’d already made plans for her life, and she would see them through. If only before she left for America, she could dance with him, just once, or perhaps even kiss him, and perhaps just a bit more.

The thought arrested her.

What if…?

And suddenly she knew. Before she departed the shores of England, before she lost him forever, she would have one moment of sin, of stolen pleasure, and irresistible passion.

Instead of ascending the stairs, she made her way to the music room where her younger sister Maryann played the pianoforte. Emma entered, and her sister glanced up.

“Oh dear, you have that rebellious look in your eyes.”

“I need your help, and I only have a week to prepare.”

“Of course, whatever you need,” she said with all the loyalty of a sister who loved her dearly.

She would attend Lady Waverly’s house party, or better, the masquerade ball customarily held at its conclusion. “We will have to be very discreet.”

Maryann’s eyes widened, and one of her hand fluttered to her chest. “Oh, dear.”

Emma would avail herself of its advantages, namely pursuing a sensual encounter with the duke of Hartford. The very idea was positively indecent, shocking, and scandalous, but there was a chance to experience something that she’d always wanted.

Emma could only hope afterward she would not be left in ruined disgrace.