Chapter One
Edward Wyeth, Duke of Moncrieff, gazed at the fire crackling in the hearth. It was a rare moment of peace and quiet in a world that had been turned on its end.
Of course, to obtain this singular moment alone, he’d had to hide. Here. In the small, oft-forgotten study on the third floor of his suddenly inundated home.
Relatives. He shuddered and took a sip of fine forty-year-old Wyeth whiskey. Six rambunctious boys, an innocent debutante, a flatulent aunt and a sour-faced companion.
The fire popped and spat embers into the grate. He nestled deeper into the stately wingchair and tried to banish his gloomy thoughts.
That was the problem with peace and quiet. It had a tendency to lead one to unfortunate reflection.
He had no business feeling dissatisfied with his life. He was a duke, for God’s sake. His household ran smoothly—or it had until his brood of cousins had descended. He was wealthy, healthy. The world was at his feet. Anything he wanted was his for the taking.
Where this trickle of unease came from, he hadn’t a clue.
Surely it had nothing to do with her. He frowned as visions of Helena Tully, now Countess of Darlington, flickered through his mind. It wasn’t that he’d wanted her very much—although he had—as much as the fact that she had married James.
James was married. The two were deeply in love.
He should not feel this unpleasant curl of envy.
He took another sip of whiskey. And then a gulp.
Damn it all anyway. He’d never wanted to be in love. Besotted. Stumbling around after a twitching skirt. What idiot did?
But watching Helena and James court, coo like lovebirds and drool over each other as they awaited their wedding had burned in his gut. Every encounter had been torment. The worst of it all had been watching them stand at the altar in St. Paul’s, holding hands and gazing into each other’s eyes like mooning cattle.
It was revolting. Surely he didn’t want that.
So why this melancholy?
Edward was alone. All alone in the world. He always had been—until his brood of cousins had descended. No one to please but himself. He liked it that way.
And why this nagging emptiness? As though something was lacking in his life?
There was nothing fucking lacking.
His life was full. Damn full.
He had his hobbies—horses and boxing and of course his writing, although that had stalled thanks to a young man’s reckless penchant for racing curricles. He had willing women at his beck and call, all of whom appreciated his particular tastes.
He didn’t dare think on how even that had begun to pall.
Not that he didn’t still enjoy having a willing wench bound and squirming on his bed. He just felt so…jaded. Nothing was new, nothing was thrilling anymore.
He had six houses, four carriages and seventeen of the most exquisite Arabians that had ever been bred. He didn’t even bother to count the servants.
Full. It was a full life.
And still—it was deadly dull.
He tipped back his glass and thought about heading across the room for a refill, but couldn’t be bothered. Instead he glared at the fire and brooded.
A snick at the door captured his attention. He turned to see a wraith enter. No. Not a wraith. A girl, wearing a voluminous white nightgown. Hell. His cousin’s vinegary companion—what was her name? It hardly mattered. The chit was a mouse. A timid, shy creature with spectacles and a tight bun, who curled up inside herself whenever he entered the chamber. He didn’t think he’d ever heard her speak so much as a word in the two months since the Onslaught.
Gads. Would they find him even here?
He sank deeper into the chair, thankful for the ornate wings, desperately wishing he’d refilled his glass. Hopefully she would come and go without noticing him, without requiring him to bestir himself to converse.
She hummed to herself as she perused the shelves on the wall. He should probably tell her she would find nothing of interest. This small collection held only his favorite books, ones he’d felt the need to rescue from the main library when he’d come upon Taylor—or was it Hamish? The two were nearly identical—using older tomes to start a fire in the umbrella stand.
She pulled out a book and flipped through the pages, then returned it to the shelf. And then another.
Edward forbore blowing out a sigh. He truly did not want to be discovered—
And then she walked in front of the fire and every fiber of his being snapped to attention. His cock stirred. For as she passed, backlit by the flames, captivating curves were revealed to his inspection. Her hair, no longer scraped back in that hideous bun, flowed softly over her shoulders and down her back—all the way to her exquisitely formed bottom.
Imagine that. The little mouse. In her drab, ill-fitting clothing. With the spectacles perched on her nose. A prim, proper pucker ever fixed on her unremarkable face.