London, 1811
Lavinia walked down the aisle of the London church, her gaze searching every pew.
“Looking for this?” Up near the altar stood the charwoman, who’d come in right behind the wedding party. In her hands she held an elaborate bouquet of roses and peonies.
A bridal bouquet, to be exact.
“Oh, dear, yes. I don’t see how that could get left behind,” Lavinia exclaimed as she hurried forward to claim the lost treasure.
“Well, there were quite a few tears being shed, my own included,” the lady said, “so it isn’t hard to see why these beauties might be forgotten.” The old woman smiled. “’Sides, ’tis my experience that it’s a love match when so many have to reach for their hankies.”
“A love match? Oh, yes, decidedly,” Lavinia agreed as the lady handed over the mislaid bouquet.
“Still, such a fancy collection of posies. Would be a terrible shame for them to be left behind,” the old woman said, not even seeming to mind the petals falling where she’d been sweeping. She looked down at them and smiled. “I do like the roses, even when they leave a mess. Pretty bits of confetti, I like to say. I takes them home and dries ’em.”
Lavinia couldn’t help herself, she inhaled, and the sweet scent of roses surrounded her.
And just as quickly she found herself tearing up again. She dashed at her eyes with her sleeve, having already ruined two handkerchiefs.
“Oh, there now,” the old charwoman told her kindly. “Weddings do that to a soul. Leave one all tied up in knots. Why, when me sister got herself married, I cried for a week.”
“You did?” Lavinia began. “I suppose I am still in shock. When we came to London, my sister made it quite clear she had no intention of ever being wed . . . and now . . .”
Lavinia looked over at the altar.
“Glad tears, though,” the charwoman said. “Always glad tears at a wedding. Your sister seemed ever so happy when she married His Lordship. And everyone saying him a big brute, but he looked over the moon with her at his side, now didn’t he?”
Lavinia shifted the bouquet from one hand to another and looked away. “Yes, they are quite meant for each other.” And once again, a sheen of tears rose in her eyes.
Oh, the devil take her! Would she ever stop crying? Louisa had married her beloved Piers . . . and now . . .
“Those are tears of happiness I see, aren’t they?” the charwoman prodded.
Really, the woman was a terrible busybody, but having come from the village of Kempton, a place rife with such spinsters, Lavinia found the old lady’s inquiry oddly comforting.
So she leaned closer to the woman and said, “I have to admit, as I watched my sister marry her viscount, the tears you witnessed were hardly charitable ones.”
The charwoman prodded her toward a place in the pews. “Tell old Tildie all about it.” She plopped down in the front row and patted the space next to her.
Lavinia looked down the aisle toward the open door. Outside, the May sunshine shone brightly. Beckoning. “I really should be going—”
“Oh, come now, no one is going to leave without you. Besides, do an old woman a favor and tell her the story.” The woman winked with a cheeky glee. “I saw that kiss at the altar. I’d wager my broom there’s a bit of scandal and romance to all of this.” Then she looked at the door as well. “And more to come if I’m not mistaken.”
Lavinia smiled, for Tildie had the right of it. Everything about this wedding and the days leading up to it were filled with scandal . . . and romance.
Truly, what would a quick recap for a lonely old woman cost her?
So she gathered her thoughts and tried to decide where best to begin.
“I suppose you could say it started,” Lavinia told her rapt audience, “when Louisa and I came to London for our Season. Our godmother, Lady Charleton, had promised to sponsor us, or so we thought.” She paused for a moment. For what had really happened was that they’d arrived in London only to discover that the baroness had passed away over a year earlier, and it was the baron’s secretary who had made all the arrangements—including finding them a suitable chaperone, Lady Aveley.
But all those points hardly mattered. And as their dear friend, Lady Essex, always said when a story got long-winded, “Get to the good part.”
So Lavinia did. “Our fortunes truly changed the night we went to Almack’s and our party was joined by Mr. Rowland—”
At the mention of Lord Charleton’s nephew and heir, the charwoman brightened. “Oh, he’s a handsome one—the one who stood up with His Lordship—isn’t he?” Tildie sighed a little, her smile turning dreamy like a newly arrived debutante’s. “Knavish looking fellow if ever there was one,” the charwoman happily mused. Then, as if thinking better of her choice of words, she added quickly, “Well, that’s what me mum would have said.”
Though Tildie appeared to share that sentiment.
“And right she would be,” Lavinia advised the charwoman in no uncertain terms. For if ever there was a knave, it was Mr. Alaster Rowland. “None of this would have happened if Mr. Rowland hadn’t let go of me in the middle of Almack’s. None of this.” She looked down at the wedding bouquet in her hands before picking up her story again.
For Tildie’s sake, and her own.
For it had all happened so fast, she hardly believed it herself.
For a young lady who had made a study of all things proper, Miss Lavinia Tempest always seemed to find her fair share of mishaps.
The small fire at Foxgrove. The bunting incident of ’08. And the rather infamous trampling at the Midsummer’s Eve ball two years earlier.
Sir Roger still claimed he didn’t miss those toes.
Of course, he was joking. He’d been very fond of those toes.
And worse, every time Lavinia attended a ball, soiree, or even just the weekly meetings of the Society for the Temperance and Improvement of Kempton, someone (usually Mrs. Bagley-Butterton) had to remind one and all of one of her more recent follies.
So when Lavinia entered the hallowed halls of Almack’s, it was with, she vowed, a fresh start.
A clean slate.
And so it seemed she was right. No one pulled their hem out of the way as she drew near for fear of it being trod upon or worse, the lace being completely ripped away. No one whispered behind their fan, or laid wagers as to who or what would be broken by the end of the evening.
She was, for the first time in her life, merely Miss Tempest, the daughter of the respected scholar, Sir Ambrose Tempest.
“It is just as I imagined,” she said in awe as she and her sister Louisa handed over their vouchers. The perfect place to launch herself into the lofty reaches of London Society.
After all, she’d spent most of the afternoon planning out her evening (when she hadn’t been reading her favorite Miss Darby novel).
First and foremost, she was wearing her new gown—a demure and respectable dress done in the latest stare of modest fashion. And while she had longed for brilliant sapphire silk that had been on the shelf at the modiste’s shop, that color would never do for a debut such as this.
After all, the very rule was on her list:
Proper Rule No. 3. An unmarried lady always wears demure and respectable colors. Such as white. Or a pale yellow. Or an apple green, but only if the occasion permits.
So the blue silk could only be eyed from a distance, and she’d consigned herself to the muslin, for propriety was the order of the evening.
That is if she was to gain the highest obligation of every young lady making her debut Season in London:
Proper Rule No. 1. Marriage to a respectable, sensible, well-ordered gentleman is the order of business for every proper lady.
So she had the gown, entrance into the very heart of the Marriage Mart, and now all she had to do was finish the evening without incident.
But this was Lavinia Tempest, and that was easier said than done.
“No dancing,” Louisa whispered to her as their chaperone, Lady Aveley, led them into the Wednesday evening crush. Her sister held out her hand, pinky extended, and Lavinia wrapped her own finger around it and the two sisters bound their promise together.
No dancing.
In Lavinia’s defense, she had made her promise most faithfully with every intention of remaining safely at the side of the dance floor.
She had demurred when Lord Ardmore had asked. Begging off in a charming fashion that she was “too nervous to dance,” this being her first visit to Almack’s.
She’d even refused the very handsome and dashing Baron Rimswell—though she had been sorely tested for it was only a simple reel, but then one glance at Lord Rimswell’s glossy boots and she’d thought better of it and remained firm to her promise.
No dancing.
But apparently no one had told Mr. Alaster Rowland. Now in his favor, Mr. Rowland’s boots hadn’t a fine gloss and he was rather squiffy from an indeterminate amount of brandy, so even if she had stepped on him, he was drunk enough that it would most likely dull the pain.
“Come now, Miss Tempest, my uncle expects me to dance with one of you,” he said as he came wavering up to her. “You cannot stand here all night.”
She looked around for her sister, Lady Aveley. Anyone. “I-I-I, oh dear. Mr. Rowland, I don’t believe—” she stammered out, even as Mr. Rowland took her hand, his strong, sure fingers lacing around hers.
No man had ever just come up and claimed her before for the simple reason that Kempton was a small village, and everyone knew (thanks in no small part to Mrs. Bagley-Butterton) that dancing with Lavinia was akin to asking to have your toes trimmed—or those of your neighbors—or to have something valuable broken.
Or a section of your house scorched.
Mr. Rowland, completely unaware of the mortal danger into which he was placing himself and a good portion of London society, just caught hold of her hand and tugged her out onto the floor, utterly and completely deaf to her protests.
“No, please, sir, I don’t think this is wise,” she told him. And she meant it. This was a very bad notion.
But unfortunately, her protests had no effect on Mr. Rowland, horrible scoundrel that he was . . .
Has that been mentioned as yet? That Mr. Alaster Rowland, the presumptive heir to his uncle’s barony, is the worst sort of knave? It should be. And often.
He was also the most handsome devil Lavinia Tempest had ever met. Or had held her hand. Or smiled down at her with a wicked light in his eyes.
Lavinia had never seen brown eyes hold that sort of promise, the kind that sent a shiver of something so delicious, so dangerous, down her spine that she made a note right there and then to add a new rule to her list at her first opportunity:
No. 83. A proper gentleman should not make one’s insides get so very warm.
In truth, as Mr. Alaster Rowland slid his hand around her waist, took her other hand in his, something altogether improper happened to Lavinia.
It had to be improper, for it certainly wasn’t proper.
“Mr. Rowland, I cannot,” she protested one last time, when to her horror, the band struck up a cotillion.
A cotillion? The last time she’d tried to dance a cotillion, Lady Essex’s house, Foxgrove, had caught fire.
Yet here was Mr. Rowland, laughing and leaning closer. “But of course you can,” he whispered in her ear, his breath warm against her skin.
It was as if he had brushed his fingers there—right against the curve of her neck. It was so intimate, so promising a gesture, that it left Lavinia in a blinding daze.
Yet Lavinia, the girl who had made a study of all things proper, knew exactly how to behave when all was proceeding at a proper pace, but right now she was being steered down a path she’d never taken before and assailed by a river of improper desires.
At least she assumed they were desires, for it was a dangerous, heady sort of warmth spreading through her limbs.
That, and something else happened. Her feet—which before had always seemed two sizes too big—untangled. It was as if the warmth of Mr. Rowland’s touch, his teasing glance, his confidence in her, awakened a very graceful part of her.
Lavinia straightened, head held just so, and a long-forgotten admonishment from the dancing master Lady Hathaway had hired years ago, tripped through her thoughts.
Dancing is all about elegance.
And right there and then, Lavinia felt elegant. Not because her gown was proper. Or that she was standing on the dance floor of Almack’s (though that certainly helped) but because the man gazing down at her held her, not at arm’s length and in obvious fear, but with all the proper care and respect of a gentleman.
Moments later, Lavinia Tempest found herself dancing.
Perfectly. Like a lady. Mr. Rowland moved, as did everyone else, and Lavinia moved as well.
And in the right direction.
Once she was able to breathe, she nearly exploded with delight. She could dance. And a cotillion, no less. Yes, here, in the rarified air of Almack’s, Lavinia Tempest had found her true talent.
“I’m dancing,” she gasped, as she made yet another turn and no one cried out in pain. Nothing crashed to the floor in a thousand indistinguishable pieces.
“Why wouldn’t you be?” Mr. Rowland asked, his attention rising from her to something that was happening across the room.
Lavinia didn’t dare look to see what had caught his attention, for she was still reining in no small amount of terror that disaster was just one misstep away. “No reason,” she replied, deciding it would only tempt the Fates by reminding them that she wasn’t supposed to be doing this.
And so they moved through the room. As she whirled around, she spotted Louisa gaping at her, her sister’s expression one of absolute terror.
But there was no need. All her years of careful study. All the setbacks. All the unintentional disasters.
It had all been for this one dance. And when it was over, she knew her Season in London would be nothing less than a tremendous success.
Yet Lavinia was to find that when one climbs too high, the fall can be all that much more treacherous. For the fortunes and future of a miss can often come down to one particular moment.
That memorable glance across a crowded ballroom. The first time a gentleman takes his hand in yours.
Even a stolen kiss.
But for Lavinia it became that moment when Mr. Rowland said, “Oh, bloody hell,” and, to her horror, let go of her.
He took off across the crowded floor leaving Lavinia stumbling and scrambling to find her footing.
Which she did by crashing into Lord Pomfrey, sending him into Lady Kipps and then the entirety of London society. (Well not everyone, but to Lavinia it might as well have been.) For there they all went, tumbling over like well-placed dominos.
Nor did it help that Lady Jersey landed with her petticoat up over her head.
“Oh dear, she really should have been wearing more under that gown,” Lavinia remarked to no one in particular. But then again, having tumbled more than her fair share of times, she was always prepared for such a misfortune.
However, not even a lifetime of preparation or lists of rules could save Lavinia Tempest from what came next.
Even before Mr. Alaster Rowland—Tuck, to his friends and just about everyone else—had arrived at White’s, the disastrous events of Almack’s were already being discussed. Some with firsthand accounts, others just chiming in with their own version so as to be part of the merriment.
“Lady Jersey with her skirt up over her head!” One fellow laughed. “I would have paid good money to see that.”
“Most don’t have to pay,” Lord Budgey added with droll charm. “But I suppose given your reputation with the ladies, you would, Procter.”
This was followed by a round of raucous laughter at poor Lord Procter’s expense. The young baron was saved from further ribald comments when the man of the hour himself arrived.
“Rowland!” they cheered, tipping their cups toward him.
Tuck saluted in return with a royal wave of his hand and nodded at one of the servants to fetch him a drink. He had no need to order. Every single one of them knew what to bring Lord Charleton’s heir.
Which was good, because he was already well on his way to being half-seas over, and now he wanted nothing more than to finish this night’s work by getting good and drunk.
“Come now, Tuck,” Lord Ardmore called out. “I was just recounting the entire tale. Nearly got trapped into dancing with one of those ungainly chits myself. However did you escape unscathed?”
“Better question would be,” Lord Budgey interjected, “what the devil were you doing at Almack’s?”
Nods all around from the confirmed bachelors and rakes in the room. Some even groaned at the mention of that hellish place.
“My duty,” he told them. Which was the truth. His uncle had all but ordered it.
“And is it true that Wakefield was there?” Procter asked, having recovered from his earlier humiliation.
“Aye,” Tuck said. He wasn’t going to say much more—he and Piers Stratton, Viscount Wakefield, had been friends since childhood, and despite the great rift between them, he still felt a fierce loyalty to the man he considered his truest friend.
Even if Piers no longer shared that sentiment.
“Wakefield and Rowland at Almack’s,” Budgey said, shaking his large head like a mastiff. “That does it. Hell has frozen over. I’ve a mind to call for my coat.”
There was general laughter all around, and Tuck accepted their jests and comments with good grace. He found a small table to one side and settled down at it.
“Where did your uncle find that fetching pair of colts?” one of the fellows asked, casting a lascivious wink at the crowd. “Cowhanded they may be, but a pretty gel isn’t something one casts aside easily.”
Tuck eyed the man narrowly. His tone and manners set Tuck’s teeth on edge and an odd sense of chivalry ran down his spine. “They are Lady Charleton’s goddaughters,” he told him with the same cold tone he might use to utter a challenge.
That took some of the wind out of their sails. For Lady Charleton had been respected and beloved by one and all.
And while a few of them raised a silent toast to the deceased baroness, Tuck wondered at his own strange need to rise to these chits’ defense.
They weren’t his responsibility—that was his Uncle Charleton and Lady Aveley’s purvey. Nor was taking the stance of knight-errant his usual inclination, but that single word—fetching—stirred something inside him.
She had been fetching, hadn’t she?
Images of dark hair and a lithe figure flitted through his memory and his body responded with an awakening that all but confirmed the gel had indeed been quite comely.
So why had he let her go tumbling across the dance floor if she was so pretty?
Tuck pressed his hand to his forehead. That was the problem with being middling drunk. If he were dead drunk, he wouldn’t care, and if he was only mildly squiffy, he’d know the answer.
Happily for him, his drink arrived then and he tossed it back, deciding the best course of business was to blot the evening out, so he waved for the entire bottle.
Around him, the story of the Tempest sisters and Almack’s began anew.
Lord Ardmore was on his feet regaling one and all. “—for after Ilford danced with one of them, he claimed he’d have to have new boots made. She’d quite trampled them.”
There was another round of laughter.
“Your boots, Tuck? What are the state of your boots?” Ardmore demanded.
Tuck laughed and held one out. “As poor as they were when I arrived at Almack’s. I’d send them over to your valet to get a proper polish, Ardmore, but poor Falshaw wouldn’t be able to show his face in public if I went ’round his back like that.”
A few of the fellows nodded in agreement. No gentleman would ever do such a thing to his valet.
“Good thing you abandoned her when you did, Tuck,” Lord Budgey said. “A good pair of boots should never be sacrificed—especially when they are probably your only pair.”
More laughter followed and Tuck ignored the jibe.
“The real question that needs asking is why ever did you abandon Miss Tempest, Rowland?” This query came from a newcomer, and Tuck turned and for a moment felt the shadow of a grave cross over his heart.
Poldie.
Yet not Poldie—the figure in the doorway was his younger brother, Bradwell Garrick, now Lord Rimswell, for he’d inherited his brother’s title when Poldie had perished on the Peninsula during Moore’s retreat to Corunna.
Demmed fellow was quite the image of his brother and always gave Tuck a moment’s pause.
And regret. I should have been there. I should have been in Spain.
But he hadn’t gone as he’d promised. He’d remained in England when Piers and Poldie had sailed off. And only Piers had come back—wounded and embittered, shutting himself away and barring anyone from his house.
So in a sense, Tuck had lost both his friends.
Yet Brody was far more proper than his older brother had ever been, and he came into the circle of rabble-rousers and glanced around with an air of disdain. “Why did you abandon Miss Tempest so abruptly?”
There was a youthful air of gallantry to Brody’s demeanor. A challenge of a sort.
Tuck hadn’t the inclination to get into another dust-up. One an evening was his limit.
Or at least so he thought.
But even as he tried to find a reply that would satisfy Brody’s sense of gentlemanly conduct and send the upright young man packing, Ardmore waded in.
“Come now, Brody,” the young lordling called out. “Did you see how her sister danced with Ilford? Can’t blame Rowland for not wanting to ruin his only pair of boots.”
This was followed by a loud howl of laughter, which neither Tuck nor Brody shared in.
“Ah,” Budgey announced, pointing toward the door. “There is Ilford. We’ll have the entirety of it from him.”
Tuck groaned. The last fellow in the world he wanted to encounter tonight—yet again—was the Marquess of Ilford.
Quite frankly he was shocked the man was even showing his face in White’s, considering the facer Piers had planted on him earlier.
His spirits brightened for a moment, for that was it.
Piers had been in some sort of tussle with the Marquess of Ilford and . . . and . . . Tuck had gone to his old friend out of instinct.
Yes, yes, and in his haste, he’d abandoned Miss Tempest. Tuck nodded to himself in satisfaction that he’d puzzled it all out. Save with the memory came the realization that right after he’d gone to help his friend, then it had all gone wrong.
Oh, not the nonsense on the dance floor. But with Piers. One minute it seemed they’d been patching things up, and the next, they were arguing again.
About Poldie. About Spain. About questions Tuck was unwilling to answer.
Couldn’t answer.
“Rowland,” the Marquess of Ilford said with a sniff as he passed Tuck’s table. “Still drinking. What a surprise.” He moved into the room and flicked his fingers at Lord Budgey—a mere viscount—to give up his seat.
Which Budgey, being a mild-mannered sort, did with great haste.
Ilford was the most arrogant aristocratic Corinthian if ever there was one. The heir to his father’s dukedom, he never missed an opportunity to point out his own lofty status. He claimed the spot he’d usurped with great fanfare and eyed his audience with the disdain of a tyrant. Though with only one eye. The other was noticeably swollen shut.
Oh, yes, the marquess appeared in high dudgeon. And looking for someone to vent his ire upon.
“Looks like you got tapped good, my lord,” Ardmore said, peering over at Ilford. “Risky business that, raising Wakefield’s ire. Everyone knows he’s mad. Might have killed you.”
There wasn’t a man in White’s, save Tuck, who didn’t flinch at such a foolish statement.
But then again, Ardmore wasn’t the brightest candle. More of a nub with an even shorter wick.
“He is mad,” Ilford said, issuing a wave of contempt. “Dashed if I know why he came at me. No reason whatsoever. Should be in Bedlam.”
Tuck, who had never been called sensible, pressed the point. “So why did you call him out?” he asked as he refilled his glass with the newly arrived bottle. “Or have you conveniently forgotten that part of the evening?”
There was a moment of silence around the table before a cruel smile spread across Ilford’s lips. “I don’t challenge cowards.”
But that was a lie, for Ilford had challenged the viscount in a fit of pique, but now was going to ignore his momentary lapse of judgment.
Tuck started to get up, but a firm hand on his shoulder stopped him.
He glanced up and found Brody there, his eyes blazing.
Confident in his position, Ilford continued. “I pity poor Wakefield. We all know why he came back from Spain the way he did. It’s what happens to men who retreat and don’t stand and fight.”
“Oh, bloody hell,” Tuck began, this time shaking off Brody. “The only reason you’re retreating from your challenge is because you know he’ll actually shoot you. Not miss like most of the cowards you demand satisfaction from. Then again, you’d have to show up . . .”
He let his implication drift down.
The marquess glared down the long beak of his nose. “Coming from the likes of you, Rowland, that isn’t even an insult. You bragged to one and all that you were going to fight in Spain and then . . .” Ilford tugged at his chin as he thought about it. “Oh, that’s right, you stayed home and let your friends serve for you. Isn’t that right, Rimswell?” The man shot a glance up at Brody. “Wasn’t Rowland supposed to be at your brother’s side when he died?”
Across the room, a tall figure rose, cutting into the cold fury that had seemed about to erupt from Tuck and Brody. Stately and commanding, Lord Howers was one of the old guard. Lofty in government circles and influential, Howers deplored anything that hinted of scandal. “Rimswell,” he intoned, not in a greeting but more as an order. “There you are. Hathaway and I were just finishing up. Join me.”
It wasn’t a request, and Tuck watched as Brody’s teeth ground together. But he did as he was bid.
“Follow your master, Rimswell,” Ilford called after them. “Obedient dog,” he added for the circle around him. “Just like his idiot brother.”
Chaunce Hathaway, a man Tuck knew by reputation, settled into the chair that had been Brody’s. Without an invitation, he filled his glass from Tuck’s bottle and took an appreciative sip. “He’s merely baiting you. Don’t give that bastard the satisfaction.”
Tuck knew that Chaunce was right. But it was demmed hard to listen to the marquess blather on and not do something, especially when his ears pricked at the tale Ilford was regaling his audience with.
“—don’t know what Charleton is thinking. Those Tempest chits will run wild before a fortnight is out. Their mother was a light skirt, and her daughters will prove no different.” Ilford paused and glanced over at Tuck. “Tumbling about the dance floor means they are ripe for a tumble elsewhere, eh? Is that what you were doing, Rowland? Seeing which one would suit your appetites best?”
There was some nervous laughter from the fringes of the gathered crowd.
But Tuck was done listening. “Shut up, Ilford.”
“Easy, Rowland,” Hathaway muttered under his breath.
But Tuck was past reasoning. Something in his memories stirred. An image of Miss Tempest and her bright blue eyes, as surprising as the bluebells that came up in London in the spring in the most unsuspecting places. And in his arms, she’d been a lithesome figure, kindling something within him that had left him a bit off-kilter.
Something far different than just the effects of the brandy.
Something that demanded satisfaction.
He got up and wavered a bit. “Those girls are innocent. Respectable. You’ll keep your vile opinions to yourself.”
Ilford spat out a laugh, utterly unimpressed. “My opinions hold more sway than you know. Those chits won’t be able to set one foot outside your uncle’s door by tomorrow morning,” he replied, loud enough for all of White’s to hear him. “Their mother was ruined goods and now they are as well. Why, I’ve heard tell that Sir Ambrose isn’t even their father. They aren’t fit to be seen in decent society. The only thing such gels are good for is—”
“Enough!” Tuck declared, his fists hitting the table.
“Oh, hell,” Chaunce muttered under his breath, getting to his feet as well.
“Those girls are innocent of everything you’ve said,” Tuck told him. “My uncle would hardly have taken them in for the Season if anything you said was vaguely true.”
Ilford laughed. “Your foolish uncle will find it’s a short Season he has to manage. They are done for. Ruined goods.”
“You’re the fool, Ilford. The Tempest sisters are Diamonds. And I can prove it.”
Ardmore sat up, eyes alight. “I smell a wager brewing.”
And for once, the man was spot on.