Chapter One
London, 1823
Lucas James Riverton Sinclair, Viscount Blackmoor, did not murder his wife.
And if anybody ever asked him directly, he would have said so. But as everyone who was anyone knew better than to directly approach a suspected murderer and question him on the said suspected murder, the discussions stayed firmly behind his back.
Within his earshot, but behind his back.
He’d learned to get over such things, having long since given up on ever being well favored in Society, but it hardly improved his mood or gave him encouragement. Particularly this evening, when he’d finally decided on a course of action that would change his life in a rather terrifying way.
If he were so fortunate.
He groaned and fought the urge to tug at his rather splendidly tied cravat, which suddenly seemed to be choking him. Ballrooms had made him chafe for years, but something about this one nearly gave him an apoplexy. His doubts and his reservations made his task impossible to comprehend, but he was determined to do it. Though the irony of so plebeian a beginning as the first ball of the Season was not lost on him and left him faintly nauseated.
Still, it was the only way to begin.
He could hardly call upon her without first showing some sort of inclination towards her person in a semi-public setting, not with his reputation and manner. They never moved in the same circles outside of Societal functions, and he was not one of those fops who could just call upon a young woman without any sort of preface.
No, if he were to do this, he would do it properly.
Though there could hardly be anything proper about it.
Imagine the Viscount Blackmoor having finally decided upon marrying again. There were less improper thoughts in the darker corners of London, and from lower characters than he. But one’s reputation can hardly be blamed for everything in life, and he took no pains to correct the misapprehensions of his character. Most of the time, it quite suited his reserve and desires for privacy.
It was, however, a marked hindrance to his attaining a second wife.
There was hardly a queue of eligible females eager for a wealthy, titled, well-educated, and respectable man suspected of murder.
But he wanted no queue.
He only wanted one female in particular.
And she had just entered the room.
She could not have been more different from him. Where he was dark, she was fair. Where he was reserved and aloof, she was open and artless. Every one of his frowns could be counted against one of her smiles.
Where he was gloom, she was sunshine.
It made no sense for him to want her, all things considered, and he had spent a considerable amount of effort to argue against it.
But something about her made it impossible to fight.
They barely knew each other, even by Society’s standards. They had been introduced years ago, after he’d returned to London following Celia’s death, before the rumors had made any headway, but she had been a young miss with bright eyes and grand ideals, as she should have been. And he had been opposed to women and silliness of any kind, so he had paid no mind.
Or tried not to, at any rate. For some inexplicable reason, he had always been mindful of her when they attended the same functions. He knew when she entered a room, and would find his gaze drawn to her repeatedly over the course of the night. She fascinated him, piqued his deeply hidden curiosity, and attracted his attention in ways he’d never experienced.
He’d not approached her since their first meeting, but as the years passed, he’d found himself growing more and more interested, particularly when she continually went without suitors or courting of any kind. She never wanted for attention at balls or parties, and received her due praise from many at the musicales she had graced, but never once had he heard of any man pursuing her. He understood his own lack of pursuit, having sworn off marriage and female companionship for the rest of his life, but what in God’s name was wrong with the rest of the men?
If he was correct in his estimation, this would be her fifth Season. A fifth Season typically set a woman firmly on the shelf, and the idea that she would be such a one irked him. There was no reason on earth why it should be so.
While not as beautiful as her sister, or some other females currently fluttering about this overcrowded and over-decorated ballroom, she was still more than attractive in her own right, and had a captivating quality about her. From his years of observations, some events more observant than others, he had never seen a single person of either sex leave her presence with anything less than a glow.
It was inconceivable that she should still be available.
He had never considered going back on his private vow. Lord knew he had enough of marriage to last three lifetimes, and he had never been tempted by anyone or anything to change his mind.
But last year, when his friend Kit Gerrard had married a woman he’d long hated and resented, and Lucas himself had not thought well of, things had changed. If Kit could marry someone he did not even like, surely Lucas could think about it, despite his past. Then the miraculous had occurred, and Kit had become happily married, in love with his wife, and the woman herself had become someone worthy of Lucas’s begrudging admiration.
He’d considered matrimony again from then on, against his will, and Kit had tried to sway him from it, though never knowing the identity of the only woman he’d consider. Lucas had asked him why Kit had married his wife, knowing the vague details of their twisted past, and his words had struck him more forcefully than anything in recent memory.
I just couldn’t let anyone else have her.
Lucas had contemplated those words, and his feelings on the subject, for nearly a full year. And as the opening event of the Season had loomed closer and closer, he’d made his decision.
He would marry again.
And he would marry her.
Provided, of course, that she was willing and agreeable. Which would be more than half of the battle. Observing someone from afar and making judgments and assumptions of their character was one thing, as he knew only too well. It was entirely plausible to consider the notion that this ray of sunshine might well be a terrifying inferno when outside of the careful eyes of the public.
He doubted that was the case here, but one must be careful.
After all, Celia had been a favorite of everyone he knew. And the hell she had brought to his life had been more poignant for its surprise.
Surely it would not be so with her. He had even gone so far as to make discreet inquiries, and nothing had given him reason to doubt.
So marriage was to be the outcome, provided she matched up to the idea his years of observation had planted within him.
Faintly, his heart thumped unsteadily with the eager hope that she would.
He cleared his throat and fought the urge to tug at his cravat again. A passing woman glanced at him, her too-thin brows raised in mocking assessment, and he frankly met her gaze, daring her to speak her obvious thoughts. He nearly smirked at the startled flush that raced into her cheeks and neck, and turned back to his unnoticed observations.
“You shouldn’t do that,” drawled a slightly amused, mostly bored sounding voice.
He turned to scowl at the forgettable, if handsome, face of Lord Marlowe, one of his oldest and yet most absent friends. “Do what?” he asked the simply dressed man with a striking stature.
Marlowe half-yawned, which would have scandalized every matron in the Almack’s ballroom if they bothered to look at him. “Oh, taunt them so with your directness. You’ll only encourage the rumors.”
Lucas snorted and shook his head. “Says the man who no one remembers.”
A faint smirk appeared for three quarters of a second on his friend’s face. “It has its uses. I have more freedom than anyone else in the peerage.”
“And what a crowning achievement that is.”
Lucas turned to watch his quarry, laughing and chatting with her usual friends. She threw her head back on a jubilant laugh, and he was struck for the moment at the sight. No Society miss in her right mind would laugh with such inhibition, and even her friends seemed startled by it. But they made no effort to restrain her, or to hide their own amusement, and considering their identities, that was a surprise.
It seemed that everyone forgot themselves in her presence.
How he would love to forget himself for a while.
He doubted very much he could ever love her the way a girl with sensibilities wanted to be loved, but he felt more for her than he had about anyone in years, and had the sudden idea that he did not quite know what he would do if she refused him.
Perhaps he might never be able to love, but he could provide for her very well, give her a title, and she would always have his respect and highest regard. Surely that was enough in today’s world.
What was he even thinking about love for? It made no difference if he could love her. Marriages were made for far more practical purposes, and not on a whim of fancy. It would be an agreeable match, if she could overlook his reputation.
“You look rather determined,” Marlowe mused sleepily. “What are you doing?”
“No time to talk to you, Marlowe,” he replied as he straightened and set aside his glass. “I am on a mission.”
That drew surprised chuckle. “A mission? Dear me, how exciting. Can I help?”
Lucas exhaled and looked over at him with a raised brow. “If I am right, and I usually am, you have more than enough missions of your own to deal with.”
The flash of surprise on his friend’s face almost made him smile, and though it was gone in an instant, the bewilderment never left his dark eyes.
“They approached me before you, Marlowe,” he muttered very low. “Before I was infamous. Play your part, vanish into thin air, and save the world. I have a far different task before me.”
With a slight bow, he turned away and slowly made his way around the perimeter of the room, eyes fixed on his target, banishing the lingering doubts on this mad venture.
He was decided, and he was determined. Mad or not, he would try for her.
And he prayed like hell it would be worth it.
“Perhaps this will be your Season.”
“Yes, you mustn’t give up hope. Look at us.”
Gemma Templeton did look, rather frankly, at both of her friends and raised a derisive brow. “Really. You, my dear Mrs. Gerrard, married a man you could not stand because you needed to be saved, and you, Mrs. Granger, were sold off like a prized cow at market to a man who ignores you.” She shrugged a shoulder, sending her blond curls dancing. “Forgive me if I hope for nothing at all, looking at the pair of you.”
Lily rolled her eyes and shook her head at Marianne. “And everyone thinks she is such a cheery person.”
Marianne scoffed, blue eyes twinkling, and took Lily’s hand in her own. “Leave them to their delusions. An unattached woman with married friends must have her little quirks, Lily. And in the case of our dear Gemma, she is the most outspoken, unpredictable, reckless sort of spinster to ever grace Almack’s.”
Gemma gasped in outrage as Lily giggled behind her hand, but she soon turned it into a smile. “I suppose I deserve that, having just insulted your marriages.”
“Oh, you were certainly right about mine,” Marianne scoffed, waving a gloved hand. “Though you must admit, it is not my case now.” She looked passed Gemma for a moment, and her smile grew warm and tender, quirking at the edges.
“No, indeed,” Gemma drawled, knowing without having to look that Marianne’s husband had appeared and met her eyes. “You and your husband are lovesick fools, and I can barely stand to visit anymore for fear it might be contagious.”
“No fear of that on my part,” Lily murmured, nervously moving a ringlet behind her ear.
That sobered the group. Lily, for all her radiant beauty and charm, had the misfortune of being an heiress and had been snatched up for her fortune by the one man whom she loved beyond reason. Her father had arranged the match with Mr. Granger, whose vast fortune had been almost entirely diminished by a wild speculation. On the brink of ruin, he had gone to the Ardens and the match had been set without Lily’s consent. They had married quietly at the end of last Season, and it was a little known fact that Thomas Granger had absolutely nothing to do with his wife, and the love she once had for him was dying before his unseeing eyes.
“At least Granger lets you do as you please,” Gemma said with a warm smile. “You can be here for the whole Season and play with us. And now Rosalind does not have to stay with your Aunt Augusta for her Season.”
Lily smiled at that. “True, and she is ever so grateful. And you know, it could be worse. Thomas is very well thought of by everyone, so it is not as though I suffer overly much.”
But just enough.
The words were unspoken, but certainly felt by all.
Poor Lily did not deserve the torment of her life. Gemma looked over at Marianne, whose eyes were also ablaze, but she only shook her head slightly. They had both done everything in their power to prevent the match, but to no avail. And it did not help that Granger was one of everybody’s favorite nobodies. Gemma would spit on his boots if she did not think half of London would spit back.
“Oh, lord, is Rosalind dancing with Darlington?” Lily suddenly asked, her pains apparently forgotten.
They turned to look and all winced. “Please don’t tell me she encourages him,” Marianne groaned, a hand instinctively going to her stomach, where the very faintest swell could be seen if one looked hard enough.
“No, she doesn’t,” Lily assured them both. “She doesn’t know enough to encourage or discourage anyone. I rather hoped she might take up with Captain Riverton, but I hear he is spoken for.”
That caught their attention and they swung back to her with rapid inquiries, for the dashing naval captain was an enviable match, particularly since his brother the viscount had married last year.
“No, no, no,” Lily laughed, raising her hands in surrender at last. “Not an engagement, for heaven’s sake. Merely spoken for. Cressida Bowles, I believe.”
“That cow?” Marianne cried, looking aghast. “She does not get to claim anything, I’ll see to it myself. No man with any regard of mine will have to endure her. Let’s give her Darlington.”
Gemma and Lily snickered and watched the dancing with amusement, as the cow in question attempted a quadrille with young Mr. Hawker, and Darlington ruined Rosalind’s dance with his airs. They would be well suited indeed.
“Can we make a match for people we don’t like?” Lily asked Marianne curiously.
“We can try.”
“Why is it that people must be so disagreeable at an event like this?” Gemma sighed aloud, watching Mr. Hawker with sympathy. “I take great pleasure in bringing amusement and enjoyment to those in my company, particularly in the dance.”
“That is because you have a gift,” Lily replied, patting her hand.
“I do,” Gemma agreed sagely, making the others laugh. She turned fully to them and raised her chin. “I can make any man smile, I guarantee it.”
Marianne widened her eyes in surprise. “Any man?”
She nodded once. “Any. I will dance with any man and make him smile.”
Lily looked suspiciously coy. “Five shillings says you cannot.”
Gemma snorted and shook her head. “Ten, and I can.”
“Even the Viscount Blackmoor?” Marianne asked, tilting her head and offering a very small smile.
“What, that old bear?” Gemma laughed and waved her gloved hand dismissively. “I could make him smile and laugh in the same dance. He does not frighten nor intimidate me. He may be hard and dark and scowling on the outside, but inside he is just as warm and soft as anybody else. Perhaps even more so.”
“Good evening, Miss Templeton.”
She froze at the low, slightly rasping voice of the viscount himself standing directly behind her. Her friends tried not to laugh, each clamping down on their lips hard. She closed her eyes for a moment, then turned and gave a little curtsey. “My lord.”
His stark features were softened in the bright splendor of the candlelight, and his frighteningly blue eyes shone as he looked at her. “Would you care to dance the next with me, Miss Templeton?”
She heard Marianne give a bit of a choking laugh, but paid her no mind. She swallowed hard and offered a shaky smile. “With pleasure.”
He inclined his head, and held out a hand for her, which she took, and found him to be surprisingly warm. Who would have thought that the viscount was a real, warm-blooded male and not the statue of ice he was presumed to be?
As he led her into the next dance, she was further surprised to find him a most capable dancer. Not precisely light of foot, but quite graceful and elegant, despite the astonished and fearful gazes of the other dancers. Did they expect him to begin murdering them all in the middle of the dance? It would hardly be appropriate. Murders were more convenient in dark alleys and abandoned houses, certainly not at Almack’s.
Blackmoor did not smile at all as they danced and said very little, which was to be expected, as he rarely said anything at all. He answered her every question with short answers, but she never got the impression that he was intentionally being rude or off-putting. They were simple questions, which only required simple answers, which he freely gave.
His eyes were fixed on her the entire time, regardless of what she or the other dancers did, and instead of finding it disconcerting, she found it almost entertaining. What did he see that rendered such intensity? It might be better to focus on the conversation at hand, rather than the eyes of her partner, as such answers could be dangerous.
He did not usually attend Almack’s, she reminded him, and he agreed. What rendered this year different, she had asked, and he had replied an interest in not being predictable. He was a better dancer than she had imagined, she had complimented, and he had responded by asking what sort of dancer should he have been. The only question he had asked of her had been if she truly thought he was old, and she had smiled and replied that anyone older than her could easily be considered old in her view without the slightest bit of offense attached, and he had conceded her point, seeming nonplussed.
As the dance began to draw to a close, she caught sight of Lily and Marianne, now joined by Kit Gerrard and his curious gaze, though all were smiling. She cocked her head at Blackmoor as he led her down the row of partners in the final movement. “Could you perhaps smile, my lord?”
He looked down at her in surprise, one dark brow raised. “I beg your pardon?”
She smiled as they took their places at the end of the lines. “I have a wager with my friends, you see. I told them I can make any man I dance with smile. Ten shillings.”
“I see,” he murmured as they bowed to each other.
She raised her eyes and took the hand he held out. “You would not wish to make me a liar, would you, sir?”
He shook his head slowly. “No, nor to make you lose ten shillings. But you see, Miss Templeton, I have a reputation to maintain.” He leaned closer and whispered, “I do not smile.”
Her smile grew as he pulled back.
He shook his head. “Fetching as you are, tempting though it is, not even you will ruin my reputation.”
His low voice, and the dark amusement she felt in it, sent a ripple through her. Somehow managing to find her voice, her tongue, and her wit, by the grace of God, Gemma responded, “Then I think you owe me ten shillings to pay my friends. Each.”
His hand tightened around her for a heartbeat. “Bill me.”
She huffed slightly as he led her back. “My lord, I do believe that may get to be a rather lengthy bill. I am quite determined, and I do not think my friends will take an IOU.”
He turned to face her as the next dance began, his pale eyes somehow more intense than before. “I will be happy to pay the balance of the bill to you some other time. I couldn’t care less what your friends think.” He bowed over her hand, and then swept away, taking some of her breath with him.
She pursed her lips in thought as she watched him go, barely mindful of her friends now gathering around her. That was the most disconcerting man on the planet, she was sure of it, and yet she was intrigued. She gnawed on her lip as he made his way through the crush as easily as if they parted for him alone, and never looked back.
Then he reached the doors and he turned, his eyes instantly colliding with hers. Her teeth froze on her lip and her head tilted of its own accord as she took him in. He held her gaze for a number of heartbeats, and she could have sworn he almost smiled as he left the room at last.
There was something about him that gave her pause, but not for any fear or apprehension. She knew his reputation and his manner and had seen him around London for years, had certainly been curious about him, but never had she expected the sort of wit he had shown during the dance, nor that he, with all his reserve and coldness, would banter with her, short though it had been.
She was determined now. She would make him smile, despite his reputation.
And just let him attempt to withstand her efforts. She never lost.
She turned to her friends with a mischievous energy coursing through her.
“You did not succeed, Gemma,” Lily said with a bright smile.
“Yet, Lily,” she pointed out. “Raise it to a pound. I will make him smile before the Season is out.”
Marianne’s lips pursed, knowing Gemma’s finances were hardly extravagant. “A whole pound just to make one man smile?”
She looked at her sharply. “Ask me again and it will be two. Besides,” she added softly, glancing back at the door where Blackmoor had just exited, “I have a very strong suspicion it will be worth it.”