London, England

1835

Jonathan Phipps, Marquess of Rivenhall, let out a loud groan, as he read the invitation—and the rather insistent letter—from his cousin. Apparently, he was to be the guest of honor at his cousin’s ball in a fortnight’s time, and it would not do for the guest of honor to refuse to attend.

“Then you should have asked me before inviting me,” he muttered to himself, setting the invitation aside and getting to his feet. “I do not want to return to London.”

The truth was, Jonathan much preferred the quietness of his country estate to the harshness of the town. Of course, the Season was already in full swing, which gave Jonathan all the more reason to avoid it.

He did not want to throw himself into all that society had to offer. He was well aware that the majority of the ton lived for the few months of the year when they could whisper and gossip and attend all manner of events, but it was not what Jonathan craved. No, he preferred the quiet birdsong that came to him each morning when he strolled quietly in the grounds, the cool breeze whispering around his cheeks. The cloying smog of London was not for him.

“And yet…,” he mumbled to himself, leaning heavily on the windowsill, looking out over his grounds. His head rested lightly against the window pane, as he recalled just how truly alone he was.

It had been a little over a year ago since he had received a letter informing him that his brother was dead. His heart had screamed in pain, as he sunk to the floor, his hand trembling as he read the letter over and over again.

His brother, the Marquess of Rivenhall, had died in a duel.

A duel, of all things. Jonathan had shouted aloud with the pain of it, both angry and frustrated with his brother for causing his own death by his own foolish actions. The loss of his brother had only added to Jonathan’s sense of grief, for both his parents had died within months of each other, less than six months prior to Charles’s untimely passing.

That had left him as the new marquess, as well as being entirely without any parents or siblings to call his own.

“Foolish man,” Jonathan muttered darkly, stepping away from the window and wandering across the room to sit down in the overstuffed chair by the fire. “Foolish, foolish man.”

Charles had always been the kind of man who had used his status and fortune for his own advantages. He had enjoyed all that society had to offer, be that in gambling or in company. Jonathan had tried to speak to him repeatedly, reminding him of the duties he now had as the marquess and growing increasingly frustrated with how his brother conducted himself. There had always been various young ladies cloistering themselves around Charles, as well as a few older widows. Jonathan did not have to guess what his brother was doing with such ladies, and given that his brother entirely ignored his advice, had chosen to leave Charles to his own life.

After all, Charles was the heir and Jonathan the “spare”—which meant that he had a great deal of opportunities laid out before him. He could have chosen to do just as his brother had done, given that he had his own fortune and property—albeit smaller.

In the end, Jonathan had sought to do something useful with his life. The army had been his preference, particularly because it took him away from Charles and all that he represented.

That decision had not lasted a particularly long duration. His brother was shot and killed in a duel, and—in that moment—Jonathan’s life changed forever.

He had become the new Marquess of Rivenhall.

The army was no longer an option. He had been forced to leave that part of his life behind and take on the responsibilities of the title. It was something he had never particularly wished for himself, but now that he had no other choice, Jonathan chose to throw himself into it, body and soul.

“And I am determined to do better than my brother,” he said to himself, pouring a brandy from the decanter to his left. That was part of the reason he did not wish to return to London—so much of it would remind him of Charles and what he had done. The same vices that Charles had been caught up in would be available to him also, for as the new Marquess of Rivenhall, he would be seen as one of the most eligible bachelors within London.

And yet, he had no desire for such things, even though he knew that he would have to soon consider matrimony so that—in time—there might be a new heir to the title. Jonathan would not allow himself to be the last in his line. He did not want the title to pass to some distant relative.

Sighing heavily, Jonathan leaned his head back in his chair and closed his eyes. His lips thinned, as he considered what he would have to face should he accept his cousin’s invitation.

Were he to make an appearance, there would be more invitations, more expectations. He could not simply appear at the ball and immediately return home to his country estate. Were he to commit to the ball, then he would have to endure at least a sennight within London. A sennight that would be filled with nothing more than grasping mamas and flirtatious young ladies.

That was something he did not want, yet Jonathan knew he would need to find himself a suitable wife.

Groaning aloud, Jonathan frowned, slamming his fist down hard on the arm of the chair.

“My lord?”

Startled, Jonathan opened his eyes to see his butler at the door, his eyes filled with curiosity.

“I did knock, my lord—twice in fact—but I don’t believe you heard me. I do apologize.”

Jonathan waved a hand, shrugging his shoulders. “It does not matter.” He had been so caught up with his own thoughts that he had not heard a single thing, not even the scratch on the door. Besides, Jonathan trusted his staff implicitly, aware that their respect for him as master would come from being treated fairly. “Is something the matter?”

The butler pushed the door open a little more, clearing his throat. “Not wrong, no, my lord. Truthfully, I would not have intruded were it not for the fact that you have a visitor.”

Jonathan frowned, pushing himself up in his chair. “A visitor?” He had not had a single visitor for a month or so, having become something of a recluse. His friends were all still in the army, as far as he was aware, and were currently far away from England’s shores.

“A gentleman, I believe,” the butler continued, stepping into the study. “Here is his card.”

Getting to his feet, Jonathan gasped as he recognized the name, looking up at his butler with excitement in his expression. “Is he here now?” When the butler nodded, Jonathan could not help but grin with delight, hurrying the butler towards the door. “Fetch him at once! I can hardly believe he has come!”

The butler did as he was instructed without a word of complaint, although Jonathan was sure he caught a spark of amusement in the man’s eye as he turned away. It was all Jonathan could do not to follow the man from the room, more than delighted that his friend, Michael, had come to call upon him.

“Michael!”

The minute his dear friend stepped into the room, Jonathan was by his side, shaking his hand warmly. Lord Michael Astor was the second son of a marquess, and being the second son, had chosen the same profession as Jonathan. It was easy enough to climb the ranks, given that they were able to purchase commissions and the like. Both Michael and Jonathan had found a kindred spirit in one another. They were, after all, in very similar situations.

“Good to see you, Rivenhall,” Michael replied, slapping Jonathan’s shoulder. “Truth be told, I almost forgot your new title just now! Your butler was kind enough to remind me.”

Jonathan chuckled and drew his friend further into the study. “Sit down, man!” he exclaimed, utterly delighted to see him. “And tell me all that has been going on. I did not expect to see you returned from Pomerania so soon.”

As Michael walked over to sit where Jonathan had indicated, Jonathan was startled to realize that his friend was limping somewhat. His face was contorted with pain, as he eased himself into a chair, only then seeing the expression on Jonathan’s face.

“Had to be discharged, old boy,” Michael commented, gesturing towards his leg. “Bit of an injury, I’m afraid.”

Jonathan sank into a chair, his heart quickening just a little. “I’m terribly sorry, Michael. I didn’t know.”

Michael shrugged, nonchalantly. “Why would you? It’s no problem, for at least I have a living to come back to. Not like some of the poorer men in the ranks.”

Suddenly recalling his manners, Jonathan poured a brandy for Michael and handed it over, his expression still grave. “So you’ve been discharged, then? I am sorry, Michael. I know how much you loved the army.”

“As did you,” Michael replied, with a wry smile. “Apparently, now I must settle down, according to my aging mother. One son with a wife is no good, for she must be assured that the family line will continue should my brother’s wife not produce any children.”

Jonathan chuckled, the seriousness of the moment passing. “And how long have they been wed?”

“A year,” Michael answered, with a lift of his eyebrows. “Long enough for the chit to bloom if you ask me, but nothing so far.”

Shaking his head, Jonathan held back a snort of laughter. “So, you must find yourself a wife then.”

“Indeed, I must,” Michael replied sadly. “However, I managed to silence my mother’s constant haranguing for a time, with the promise that I would go to London before the end of the Season.” He looked up at Jonathan with a rather self-conscious expression. “I know I have not been invited, but might I reside with you for a week or so? Just until my leg has recovered a little more of its strength. Although I doubt that I am likely to find myself a wife with a gammy leg…as well as being the second son of a marquess.” He laughed again.

“Of course, you may,” Jonathan said, wanting to put his friend at ease. “You must know that I am more than happy to have your company, Michael. The truth is, I am expected to go to town also.” He grimaced, sighing heavily. “My cousin is to throw a ball, and I am, apparently, the guest of honor. Although, I certainly did not ask for such an invitation.”

Michael grinned, his eyes filled with mirth. “Then we are once again thrown together, it would seem. Both with the same destination in mind.” The smile left his eyes, his mouth slowly lowering into a scowl. “Matrimony.”

There was a moment of silence.

“There will be a great deal more attention on you than I, however,” Michael replied, with a small smile. “You are a marquess, after all, and I am nothing more than a wounded soldier. I shall have very little to worry about on that front. I do not think I shall even be able to dance without wincing.”

“Do you truly wish for a wife?” Jonathan asked, hearing the pain in his friend’s words. “From how you are speaking, I would say you do not, but there is something in your demeanor that tells me otherwise.”

Michael held his gaze for a moment, a slight frown on his face. “You were always able to deduce such things,” he muttered, passing a hand over his eyes. “Very well, I shall give you the truth, Rivenhall.”

Jonathan smiled and sat back, making sure that his friend had a decent amount of brandy before he began.

“The truth is that I am thinking of matrimony, but not the kind my mother is pushing on me,” Michael began, looking a little self-conscious at speaking so openly. “Mama wants nothing more than an arrangement, a contract, of sorts. My wife should fulfill all the requirements of a genteel lady and be able to provide me with children.”

“And you do not think these are good requirements?”

“I would marry the kitchen maid if she said she loved me!” Michael exclaimed, surprising Jonathan by his sudden fervor. “I do not care about titles or accomplishments or anything of the sort. I want a lady who will love me just as I am.” He gestured to his leg, looking a little hopeless. “My leg is never to be the same again, or so I am told. I will not have a wife who will barely look at me once our children have been produced. I will not marry a lady who cares nothing for me, who will live an entirely separate life from me. That is not what I want. I want love and affection and companionship, someone who will not turn away in disgust when she sees the state of my limb.” Sighing heavily, Michael shook his head and closed his eyes, looking suddenly weary. “I am not sure I will be able to find such a lady, however. I am the second son and an injured soldier with a limp that is not likely to ever go away.” He lifted one eyebrow and gave Jonathan a wry smile. “Not exactly a catch, am I? I doubt I shall find a single lady to even stand up with me.”

A sudden idea took hold of Jonathan, an idea that continued to blossom and grow as he stared at Michael, a wide smile spreading across his face.

“Do you know, I might have just the thing that could help the both of us,” he murmured, pouring himself another brandy. “It will involve a bit of deception, but mayhap it will help us ascertain the true nature of any young lady we are likely to meet.”

“Whatever are you talking about?” Michael replied, his troubled expression deepening. “Deception? How is that any way to capture a lady’s heart?”

Jonathan chuckled, rubbing his hands together. “We will change places.”

There was a brief silence, followed by Michael taking a rather hearty sip of his brandy. “Change places? I will play you, and you will play me?”

“Yes, precisely,” Jonathan declared with a broad smile. “You will be able to talk to a great many ladies and be able to discern which might come to care for you once your true identity is revealed. I, on the other hand, will be able to discover which might come to care for me regardless of my title. You see, Michael, you are not the only one who thinks of companionship and affection within a marriage.”

Michael was staring at him, his mind clearly working things through, as he slowly began to nod, his eyes brightening. “We would not be able to form any kind of serious attachments however.”

“No, of course, we could not,” Jonathan exclaimed, chuckling. “But any lady who might come to care for us would be able to forgive such a deception once we explain all the reasons behind it, I am quite sure of it.” He shrugged, suddenly delighted with the idea of returning to London. “And I shall inform my cousin that I will be his guest of honor at the upcoming ball. After all, he has not seen me in a great many years, so you will easily be able to pass as me.”

“I am not quite sure about this,” Michael replied, suddenly looking rather wary. “There is potential for this all to go disastrously wrong, Rivenhall.”

Jonathan chuckled, not put off in the least. “Do not tell me this accident of yours has taken away your sense of adventure, Michael!” he replied lightly. “Come now, give it a shot at the very least. Let us see what will become of it, shall we?”

Lord Michael frowned, his lips pressed together as he thought through what had been suggested.

“Will not people recognize you? I know they will not recognize me for I have not been in London these last five years.”

Jonathan shook his head. “I very much doubt it. It has been some years since I have been amongst society. As second son, I was very easily forgotten. I have not returned to London since I left my brother there, determined to take myself away from his way of life entirely.”

Lord Michael nodded slowly, chewing on his lip. “There could be a great deal of scandal once it all comes out,” he said, as though Jonathan had not thought of such a thing. “What then?”

“By then, I intend to be back in my estate with a bride of my own,” Jonathan declared, “as will you. What is there to worry about? A bit of scandal will pass quickly, for there will be much juicier pieces of gossip to cover over our small indiscretion, I am quite sure.”

There was another long pause as Lord Michael continued to consider what he would do. “Very well,” he said eventually, with a hint of concern in his expression. “We will give it a turn, at the very least. Onwards into the fray, yes?”

“Exactly,” Jonathan replied, with a broad smile. “And we shall succeed, I am more than sure of it.”