The Earl Who Played With Fire - Preview

THE EARL WHO PLAYED WITH FIRE is the fourth book in the Muses of Mayfair series. Check the purchase page for buy links, or read the first chapter below.

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London, March 1813

Miss Prudence Etchingham was expected to admire the paintings. Instead, she covertly admired the man standing across the room. His back was to her. She preferred to see his face, but this angle had its own charms. His shoulders were broad, capable of carrying something heavier than the burdens of an earldom. His dark hair could have been wild if he weren’t quite so proper. The tails of his coat obscured his backside, but they accentuated his well-toned legs.

Not that Prudence should have noticed his legs. She shouldn’t have noticed anything about him. But after years of secret study, she knew every curve of his smile, every line on his face.

And when she let herself daydream — as she often did — she could pretend that he had given her his love, not just his charity.

“Fascinating exhibit, don’t you think?” her friend Ellie said.

Mr. John Soane’s townhouse had some of the best artifacts in London, and he regularly allowed others to attend public viewings of his collection. Prudence turned to her friend and strove for an innocent expression. “It is vastly intriguing.”

The marchioness laughed and lowered her voice. “I may be married now, but I haven’t lost all my observational powers. When do you plan to tell Salford of your feelings?”

Prudence glanced back at Alex — the Earl of Salford, if she was being proper. There were enough people between them to dampen Ellie’s voice, but not enough to block the view. “If he wants me, he knows where to find me.”

She had lived in his house for months. Her mother, Lady Harcastle, had attempted to arrange a marriage for Prudence the previous summer, but the engagement had died before it was announced. If Alex’s mother hadn’t offered Prudence a position as her companion out of pity, Prudence’s care would have been foisted off on a cousin instead.

Her mother didn’t have the money for another Season, particularly when Prudence was such a bad investment. She only had enough funds left to move between relatives and snipe at Prudence for her failures.

Ellie leaned in to whisper in her ear. “Men can be quite stupid. It took Nick a decade to come to his senses and come home to me. If you can help Salford to realize his feelings sooner, it’s better for both of you.”

Prudence shook her head. “Nick knew he loved you. He merely had to act upon it. Lord Salford has made no such overture.”

“Men,” Ellie pronounced. “I think he is besotted with you.”

Prudence glanced toward Alex again. This time, she caught him watching her instead of the paintings.

She knew why myths and Biblical tales featured so many fools who looked back and died because of it. She’d never been able to ignore the temptation of looking at him. But today, his gaze killed her. He stood under a skylight, seemingly lit up just for her. She would always remember him like that, half-turned toward her, his body poised halfway between seeking her out and stepping back into the shadows.

Her breath caught. She met his eyes. She always met his eyes, hoping to see something there that would give her an answer.

The beam of sunlight was blotted out by an errant cloud. His eyes dimmed. Prudence dropped hers, not needing to watch as he turned back to the paintings.

She had to stop looking, stop searching for the heart he would likely never give her. She focused resolutely on Ellie. “If he is so besotted, he can tell me. I’ve better things to do with my time than wait for him.”

Ellie was gracious enough — or perceptive enough — not to ask what those things were.

Or perhaps she would have asked, if given time, but they were interrupted before Ellie could continue her campaign. “Lady Folkestone,” the newcomer said, bowing over Ellie’s hand. “I thought we had lost you to that uncultured man you married. You must stop in to my shop and select a wedding present.”

Ellie laughed. Her new husband, the Marquess of Folkestone, was a wealthy trader who had unexpectedly inherited the title. “I’m not lost. Our honeymoon didn’t end until a week ago. Still, you should be careful not to insult my husband to his face or he might run you out of business.”

“I trust you’ll disarm him,” Ostringer said.

It was odd banter — but then, Ellie knew everyone in the ton and half the people outside it, and she seemed to share some private joke with all of them. Her smile was supremely satisfied. “No need to disarm him,” she said. “The ton will never believe it, but marriage suits us.”

Prudence felt a little kick of jealousy — just enough to hate herself for it. Her three closest friends had married wealthy, titled men in the past year. All of them had been love matches.

She was still enough of her old self to be ashamed of how jealous she was. But her new self had bigger problems.

And one of those problems stood in front of her, pretending to be a stranger. Ellie turned to Prudence. “Miss Etchingham, may I present to you Mr. Ostringer? He owns an antiquities shop of some renown.”

Prudence held out her hand as though she and Ostringer had never met. “How do you do, Mr. Ostringer?”

“Charmed, Miss Etchingham,” he said, bowing over it and betraying nothing.

“My dear friend has a passion for antiquities,” Ellie said to the shopkeeper.

Ostringer lifted first one eyebrow, then the other, as though this fact surprised him. It nearly made her laugh even after all these months. Perhaps the gesture amused her because his brows were so prodigious. They rioted under his equally riotous iron grey hair. He was tall, slightly heavyset, but still agile. He must have been nearing sixty years of age, but beyond his hair and the web of lines around his eyes, there were few signs of decay.

“How unusual,” he said. “I thought lovely young ladies such as yourself would be more interested in dressmakers than antiquities purveyors.”

His statement was innocuous. She responded in kind. “Young ladies are becoming remarkably daring in the modern age, Mr. Ostringer. An interest in antiquities isn’t unusual.”

Ladies were permitted to have a casual interest in antiquities, particularly as it pertained to decorating their homes. No one liked it if they attempted to make a scholarly career of it, though. Mr. Ostringer smiled. “I thank you for the modern age. If you will pardon my unseemly mention of business matters, my shop does better when the fairer sex embraces yet another decorating scheme.”

“The fairer sex and the Prince Regent,” Ellie said drily.

Ostringer laughed. “His Royal Highness would be a better ruler if he spent less time redesigning his palaces, but he’s doing quite a good job for me.”

“Surely you’re more civic-minded than that,” Prudence teased.

“Don’t mistake me, Miss Etchingham. I want the best for Britain. But if the best happens to sell more antiquities…”

He shrugged. His smile was pleasant, but there was something sharp about Ostringer’s face that his laughter and wild eyebrows couldn’t hide. Prudence suspected he could be quite ruthless. But he had not yet been ruthless with her.

Ellie laughed, but whatever comment she might have made about Ostringer was lost when her husband joined them. “My lord,” Ellie said to the marquess. “May I present to you Mr. Ostringer? He keeps an antiquities shop in Mayfair.”

Another man might have had heart palpitations at the thought of his wife associating with a shopkeeper, but Nick was either a better man than most, or he had come to terms with Ellie’s odd social circles. He shook Ostringer’s hand. “Pleased to meet you, Ostringer. I believe I can hold you responsible for half the contents of my home.”

Ostringer nodded. “I would be pleased to provide more, should your wife choose to redecorate again.”

Nick wrapped his arm around Ellie’s waist — not particularly proper, but then, neither of them were particularly proper. “I’m sure she will someday. But I plan to keep her too entertained to think about it for at least a decade.”

Ellie blushed. She rarely blushed. With her red hair, it was quite the sight.

Prudence felt another stab of jealousy. Ellie and Nick were newly wed, and the love between them still burned hot enough to scorch innocent bystanders. She looked back at Alex, driven by an instinct that overruled all common sense. But he wasn’t where he’d been before. He must have left the room without her noting it.

And without inviting her along.

She’d missed whatever Ellie’s reply had been, but Nick laughed — something low and magical, as though he’d forgotten that they had an audience. “Will you come to the staircase with me?” he asked Ellie. “I have something I wish to show you.”

Prudence very much doubted that Nick cared for most of the art in Soane’s house — he just wanted Ellie to himself. But Ellie nodded and turned to Prudence. “Do you mind if I leave you for a moment?” Ellie asked. “Not that you need my chaperonage at an event such as this.”

Prudence waved her away. “If you had told me a year ago that the infamous Lady Folkestone would chaperone me, I would have vowed to eat my hat. I’m sure I won’t get into any mischief worse than what you would push me into.”

Ellie’s sly smile said she would happily push Prudence into mischief if given half a chance. But she said her farewells as though nothing was amiss. That left Prudence with Ostringer, who thankfully still pretended he didn’t know her. “Have you seen Mr. Soane’s pottery collection, Miss Etchingham?” he asked.

She shook her head. “Lady Folkestone insisted on viewing the paintings while the light was still good.”

Mr. Soane had installed clever skylights and windows, just as he had when designing the Bank of London, so the entire collection was more visible and vibrant than anything one usually saw in a private home. Ostringer pressed his point. “You seem to be the type of young lady who prefers objects to paintings. Would you care to accompany me?”

She glanced around the room. There was no one left whom she knew, but that didn’t mean gossip wouldn’t spread if someone overheard the wrong thing. “This is not a good time for a discussion,” she said, lowering her voice.

Ostringer shook his head. “I am well aware, Miss Etchingham. No discussion is required. But there is something I wish to show you.”

It was unusual of her to leave a room with a man she claimed not to know, but it was daylight and they were in a public space. Her reputation would be safe enough.

She allowed him to escort her into the hall. Soane’s collections were quickly outgrowing his available space, even though he had just finished combining his original townhouse with the one next door. The hall had several shelves of objects crammed into every inch of wall space. A few people were exploring the curios and artifacts displayed there, but Prudence knew them only by sight from nine years of parties and excursions. None of them would remark on her presence.

“What do you wish to show me?” she asked Ostringer.

He gestured to one of the shelves. “There is a most unusual object in Soane’s collection. A rare piece of pottery, if I’m not mistaken.”

She peered in the direction he had pointed. She saw what he meant immediately, but she took her time, schooling her features so that they would give nothing away. “Very rare, Mr. Ostringer. You have a good eye for what may interest me.”

“I sold it to him a week ago. I am not surprised that it took pride of place in this cabinet. It is very well made, after all.”

Prudence knew how well-made it was. It had been buried in Lady Salford’s garden for a month. It now looked weathered, but it had easily survived the freeze and thaw of London in February. Her arm hadn’t survived it so easily; digging into the frozen turf had been a challenge that left her muscles sore for days.

She straightened her spine. “Mr. Soane has excellent taste. But I am surprised he acquired this.”

“The artist is very talented.”

She didn’t like his use of present tense. “I would have thought this piece more likely to appeal to a dilettante instead of a scholar.”

That was the agreement they had made — that he would only sell her pieces to amateurs, people who would never realize that they had bought a forgery. Ostringer shrugged. “Soane felt he had to have it. Who am I to deny him when he’s so sure of the provenance?”

She was sure she was blushing, and equally sure that Soane’s blasted skylights would betray her. “Have you sold any similar objects to scholars of Mr. Soane’s standing?”

Ostringer pretended to think for a moment. “The Duke of Thorington has bought several pieces recently. You may also recognize an urn that Mr. Thomas Hope purchased, should you attend one of the exhibitions at his house. But you will have to look elsewhere if you want something similar — I find myself quite out of stock.”

She couldn’t help herself. “Out of stock?” she asked.

“Completely.” His smile wasn’t ruthless this time — it was conspiratorial. “If you’ll allow me to bore you with business talk again, I can share that the profit approached five hundred pounds.”

Five hundred pounds. “I should congratulate you on your good fortune,” she said.

She was dizzy with it. Her share would be three hundred — enough to set herself up in a little house somewhere for a year, if she was careful with her spending and didn’t try to keep a carriage or a horse.

He inclined his head. “I’m of course eager to make more profit.”

“Perhaps you could sell scarabs?” she suggested. “I know they’re not as fashionable as they once were, but they are very easy to store.”

She knew they were easy to store. She had several of them hidden in jars of tea under her bed, developing the proper patina. But Ostringer sighed. “Scarab beetles are all well and good. But they aren’t quite…audacious enough.”

“Do you wish to be audacious?”

Prudence was careful to keep their conversation hypothetical. He responded in kind, but not as kindly as she expected. “Scarabs will bring a profit, but not as much as one might wish. If I could have my way, I would demand something worth far more than that.”

She wasn’t sure she liked the word “demand,” but the idea of making more money thrilled her. She had been preparing smaller forgeries for months — ever since she had begun to realize that she would likely never marry and would need to find a way to feed herself. She had started by repainting bits of pottery or stones to match the older styles. They were easy to do on her own in the endless hours when she should have been darning socks or sitting as an ornament at Alex’s mother’s at-homes. But as she had reinvested her first profits into paying artisans to craft more ambitious pieces, her dreams had grown.

She could make enough to be independent. She could even make enough to support her mother, if she felt like clasping that viper to her breast.

But she had yet to make a major piece, one that would bring a significant sum of money. And that would take far more effort. She shook her head as she looked at him. “Audacity sounds intriguing, Mr. Ostringer. But it is also a bigger risk.”

Ostringer smiled. “The men who can afford a bigger risk are usually not as intelligent as they think they are. I’ve sold more pieces than I can count to men who thought they knew what they were doing.”

His smile wasn’t very kind. In fact, it was rather wolfish. Had she grabbed a wolf by the tail when she had made her bargain with him?

She wouldn’t worry about it yet — but it might be wise not to put all of her eggs in Mr. Ostringer’s rather questionable basket. She nodded as though she wasn’t considering anything but what she might make for him. “Perhaps I will stop by in a few weeks to see your collection. I would like to see what you may sell next.”

A shadow fell on them, making her glad that their conversation had been circumspect. “Miss Etchingham,” Alex said.

Why did his voice make her shiver? “My lord,” she said, turning to him. “May I present to you Mr. Ostringer? He is an antiquities collector.”

“I know who he is,” Alex said.

His voice snapped. Ostringer didn’t blink. “My dear Lord Salford. How do you do?”

Alex didn’t respond. He turned to Prudence, ignoring Ostringer completely. “Would you care to accompany me to the library, Miss Etchingham? There is something I wish to show you.”

She let him take her arm because she always let him take her arm. Even though it was madness, even though it hurt, she wanted to feel the warmth of his touch — to pretend that it meant something. These moments when they walked together were as close as she could get to him. She never turned him away even when her heart was aching.

But she had too much pride to let him run entirely roughshod over her. “You shouldn’t have been rude to Mr. Ostringer,” she said as he escorted her from the room. “I know he is a merchant, but I didn’t think you were so priggish about such things.”

“I’m not a prig,” Alex said. “But I do not like to see you associating with charlatans.”

“I had never met him before today,” she lied. “He seemed pleasant.”

“Pleasant for a charlatan. Still, you wouldn’t approve of his methods.”

Her touch was perfectly proper on his arm, but no bystander would guess that all her attention was focused on her fingertips. “What methods would I not approve of?”

“He is a fraud, Miss Etchingham. Most of what he sells is genuine, but there’s always some piece or another that isn’t what he claims it is.”

“Perhaps he doesn’t know?” she asked.

Alex shook his head as they navigated around the people and objects in their path. He was solicitous, slowing down to make allowance for her dress, and she leaned on him just a bit more than she needed to. “Ostringer knows what he’s about,” Alex said. “I don’t mind the usual tricks dealers play — it is up to the buyer to ascertain provenance, after all. But the rumor is that he was a private secretary before he descended into the trade. He must have had some schooling. I don’t approve of frauds who know what they are about.”

“That hardly signifies for me,” she said, smiling as though fraud was the furthest thing from her mind. And it very nearly was — she was too wrapped up in Alex to care much about Ostringer. “I don’t have the funds to buy anything from him, real or no.”

“I will buy you whatever you need. But please don’t associate with Ostringer.”

Prudence frowned. “I do not know him. Why would you care whether I associate with him or not?”

“Intuition, I suppose,” he said, after a moment of silence. “I feel honor-bound to protect you, Miss Etchingham. All I want is for you to stay safe.”

He looked down at her as he said it. She tried to read him — tried to understand his tone.

“I am quite safe here,” she said. “You’re with me.”

His arm tightened under her hand, pulling her just the slightest bit closer. That smoldering look she sometimes caught him with was back in his eyes. “I cannot always be with you. But I want you to be safe without me.”

“Why must I be safe without you?”

The question cut too close to the bone. She dropped her eyes as silence pooled around them. He paused for the longest time, long enough for her to answer her own question in any number of ways.

His answer, when it finally came, wasn’t the one she wanted. “I’m the best protection you’ve got at the moment. Allow me to indulge in my protective instincts.”

“I am not your responsibility,” she said.

It was a test. She looked up. Their eyes met, held.

She should have known better. His gaze slowly cooled. He stepped back, not enough to drop her arm, but enough to make his point. If she hadn’t seen that smoldering look earlier, she would have guessed that he was neutral, slightly concerned, but mostly unaffected. As though she was any dependent.

As though she would never mean anything to him beyond duty.

“If you would allow me to stand in for your brothers, I would do so gladly,” he said.

The sentiment should have touched her. Instead, it destroyed her.

“How charming of you,” she said, trying for banter instead of heartbreak.

He inclined his head. “It isn’t meant to be charming. I merely wish to see you have all the happiness you deserve.”

He escorted her into the library then. There was a sculpture of some vague renown, but Prudence didn’t listen closely to his description. It was clear that he had taken her there to protect her from Ostringer — but his protection came from duty, not love.

Alex would never love her. Even if he would come to, she could no longer wait for him. She could no longer sit in his house, eat his food, use his carriages, and all the rest while waiting endlessly for him to notice her.

She just needed one more object. One more big, valuable forgery that could buy her freedom.

Miss Prudence Etchingham had never been characterized as audacious before. But if she had to choose between audacity and poverty…

She looked up at Alex. His gaze was fixed on the statue, so intently that he was either obsessed with it or was purposefully ignoring her.

She had to let him go. And she would do it now, before she wasted any more of her life on a fantasy.

———————-

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(Excerpt from The Earl Who Played With Fire by Sara Ramsey, copyright 2013. All rights reserved.)

Tuesday teaser: a bit of Lady Christabel

I will probably regret doing this, but I'm going to see how well I like (or loathe) posting a snippet of a work-in-progress every Tuesday. This will continue until I tire of it, or until I can't bear to put rough preliminary sentences out on the web for all and sundry to see. Also, CAVEAT: anything posted here is subject to change. I change major plot points up until the very final draft, and minor characters' names can change on a whim. So, don't get too wedded to anything I post here, since it may never show up in the final draft.

Now that I've caveated you to death, here's a snippet of something I'm playing around with - a (potentially serialized) first-person Regency starring Lady Christabel Claiborne, who was a secondary character in THE MARQUESS WHO LOVED ME. Enjoy!

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Before I begin, I want you to know…I never thought to make a scandal of myself. Never even dreamt of it, all those years I spent in my mother’s house. I was immured like a nun, counting the hours between breakfast, supper, and bed as regularly as one might arrange the prayers in a cathedral.

But when I met Sebastian Staunton, I was lost.

I suppose, dear Reader, that you wouldn’t understand my fascination with Mr. Staunton. He was a middling sort of man, possessed of middling brown hair, middling brown eyes, and the middling fortune expected of a second son. I’d heard the rumors of his reputation, of course — the only thing that wasn’t middling about him. Still, even with that warning I failed to notice the hidden spark in his eyes. I failed to notice the powerful body he hid under his proper evening suit. I failed to notice the keen way in which he observed me, as though I were a potential threat and not a middling sort of woman myself.

I, like everyone else in his life, underestimated him. I saw the rake he intended for me to see. But if I may be allowed to defend my former naivete, I wasn’t looking for seduction. I didn’t anticipate that he presented any danger to me at all.

If I had known, that night in my sister-in-law’s ballroom, just where Sebastian Staunton would take me — or the methods he would use to deliver me there — perhaps I would have succumbed to a fit of vapors. That’s a lie, of course. I’ve never been ladylike enough for vapors. But perhaps — perhaps I would have reconsidered. Perhaps I would have stayed away from him, stayed safe in Sussex until my skin turned to paper and my bones brittled, until all hope of another life was just a wisp of fog in my age-dulled mind.

Perhaps.

That night, though, Sebastian Staunton interested me greatly, and for only one reason.

Mr. Staunton possessed a ship. And I would do anything, promise anything, become anything, for the chance to run away on it.

The Marquess Who Loved Me - Preview

THE MARQUESS WHO LOVED ME is the third book in the Muses of Mayfair series. It is out now on Kindle, Nook, Kobo, Apple, Google Play, and paperback - check the purchase page for buy links. CHAPTER ONE

Surrey, 11 February 1813

Nicholas Claiborne was not a sentimental man. And yet even he thought it would be pleasant to feel something better than anger upon seeing his ancestral estate for the first time.

“Damn her,” he muttered. “She would be hosting a party tonight.”

Did Ellie remember this date, this night, as he did? Or was her party a grating coincidence?

When Nick’s will had failed him over the last decade — more often than he cared to admit — he dreamed of seeing her again. Sometimes, his fantasy Ellie ran into his arms. Sometimes, she was so caught up in someone else that she didn’t notice him. But in every vision of his homecoming, he had forgotten an important point.

He couldn’t find his own house.

It was embarrassing, that. The pub owner in the last village, only a mile from Folkestone’s entrance gates, had assured him that he couldn’t possibly miss the estate. He might have done so more smugly had he known Nick was the long-absent owner rather than one of an endless stream of guests. But Nick hadn’t shared his real name — not in the village, not upon arrival at the East India Docks, and not at the London hotel he’d used for the past five days. If the attempts on his life in Madras had been ordered from London — or Folkestone — he wouldn’t make it easy for his assailants by announcing his return.

The date of his return was a coincidence. If he weren’t tracking a would-be murderer, he might never have returned. But on the eve of Ellie’s birthday, he couldn’t resist her. When his will finally, inevitably failed him and his compulsion for Ellie had overruled his common sense, he only had a vague sense of where to find his Surrey estate — hardly an auspicious homecoming.

Luckily, the pub owner’s directions were sound. The grand wrought iron gates stood open, more inviting than Nick had pictured them when his father had described them to Nick and his brothers. Beyond, some fifty carriages lined the drive. He heard the whinnying of horses and the stamping of hooves, muted masculine laughter and at least one protracted snore. Never mind that it was February — the drivers were accustomed to waiting hours for their employers.

Surely it was the cold that made him shiver, not the gates that waited for him. The colorful coat of arms at their peak was grey in the darkness, but the golden bits glimmered faintly in the moonlight. He had been forced to learn the arms at Eton — lions, unicorns, and roses, remnants of the ancient lines from which his father’s side descended.

His lip curled. What would his own arms be? Looms and rifles and tea leaves?

He urged his horse through the gates. If anyone in the house wanted a warning when he arrived, there was no one at the gatehouse to send it. He’d passed no carriages on the road — they likely thought all guests were accounted for and had gone off for a drink. If he were inclined, Nick could seize the gatehouse without firing a single shot.

As an invasion force, he was grossly outnumbered. But then, he held the deed to the property. Ellie’s opinions on the matter, like the rest of her, could go to the devil.

The long drive was lined with towering elms, their branches a naked winter canopy. Moonlight filtered through, casting light and shadow on the gravel as he rode. In summer the leaves would be impenetrable. His father, in one of his nostalgic moods, had said the tunnel was a bit of magic, cutting off the view of the main house until the last moment, the better to stun visitors with its grandeur.

The marquesses of Folkestone were supposed to be grand. As the latest in that accursed line, Nick didn’t care for appearances. He only cared for what helped him to achieve his ends. If grand hauteur helped, he would use every bit of it he possessed. He had hired a private room at the pub and trussed himself up in the evening suit he’d paid double to have tailored in London that morning. It wouldn’t do to show up like a travel-stained beggar, not for what he had planned. He’d left his batman in the village, too — under protest, since Trower thought Nick needed an ally at his back.

Perhaps he did. But this wasn’t a Madras back alley, and he’d found no evidence of a threat to his life in London. If Nick faced an attack at Folkestone, it would be more subtle — a cut direct with the eyes, not a saber.

He reached the end of the tunnel. It opened into a wide semicircular carriageway that cut across the acres of lawns and gardens in front of the vast house. Nick reined in. His breath left him in a gust of frozen mist. The stories his father told had made Folkestone into a prison — Newgate, with fewer inmates and better ventilation.

But tonight, lit up outside with torches and inside with lamps and chandeliers, Folkestone was a shimmering invitation, a mansion seductive in its glory. Perhaps his father had dimmed his descriptions of Folkestone’s grandeur for Nick’s mother’s sake — as though to say that marrying her and being disowned for it had rescued him rather than ruined him.

Nick set his jaw. Folkestone could go to the devil too. He hadn’t needed it when he’d unexpectedly inherited it ten years earlier, and he didn’t need it now. Besides, he was accustomed to such displays of wealth. The Claibornes had snubbed Nick’s mother for no reason other than that she was the daughter of a garrulous Welsh miner-turned-merchant, but the business his maternal grandfather had started could buy Folkestone twenty times over. There was no point in ogling Folkestone like a street urchin.

And he would rather carve out his own eyes than be caught staring at it by someone who was either his servant or his guest.

Or Ellie.

His teeth ground together. He forced his jaw open. It was pointless to order himself not to think of her. He had given himself that order ten thousand times. It was the only place where his discipline failed him. But surely he could be disciplined tonight — if not for his pride, then for the effectiveness of his revenge upon her.

He rode around the courtyard’s central fountain. The statues, replicas of Grecian water-bearers, were silent in winter, the water drained to keep from freezing and cracking the stone. At the foot of the house, a wide, shallow staircase beckoned, leading up half a story to the open double doors. He heard hundreds of voices, but no music — the party had not yet begun. But Ellie would have no trouble filling the house with guests. No one would refuse an invitation to such a lavish display, even with the two-hour drive from London.

A handful of grooms watched his approach. The Folkestone grooms typically wore green with gold trim — or at least they had twenty years earlier, when Charles Claiborne, his cousin and unlamented predecessor to the Folkestone title, had stolen all of Nick’s clothes and left only a suit of Folkestone livery in Nick’s chest at Eton. The hot, furious shame of that moment had faded, but the vivid memory of that green coat where his Eton robes should have been would never leave him.

But the grooms wore sumptuous red and blue tunics with puffed sleeves and hose — livery that would have been more at home at the Tudor court, not a modern country seat. They were all improbably young and impossibly smooth as they bowed to him.

“Welcome to Folkestone, sir,” one of them said as Nick slid from his horse. He had the diction of a posh Londoner, not the broad accents of Surrey. Nick slid off his horse and tossed a guinea to the groom. “Stable him. I’m staying.”

That should have startled a look of surprise out of the servant. His face stayed unconcerned, though. He took the reins and led the horse away without a word.

How many other men had said the same thing, to make Ellie’s servants so accustomed to his boldness?

One groom ushered him politely toward the steps. The others ignored him. No questions about luggage. No demand to see an invitation. No curiosity about why he had arrived on horseback rather than driving a smart curricle or carriage. Nick wanted to know why they were so lax. He wanted to know why they were dressed as Tudors. He wanted to know why they didn’t recognize their master — surely Ellie kept at least one painting of him somewhere in his house? She’d painted him enough times to fill a room — unless she’d painted over him, removing his face from her life as ruthlessly as she’d cut out his heart.

He kept his questions to himself and strode up the steps. But his anger rose. He let it come, preferring rage to thoughts of what might have been — what his life would have been, if he had claimed this house the day he had inherited it. It would have been easy enough to do — take his damned cousin’s title and the estate his father had never been allowed to return to. And his cousin’s bride — the woman who should have been his.

His thoughts were consumed by Ellie tonight. But he still had space to examine the house’s defenses. If his would-be murderer had followed him from India, it would be absurdly easy to slip onto the estate. In fact, it seemed no slipping was required — Napoleon himself could likely walk into this party unmolested, and perhaps be offered refreshments and a bath before he started hacking away at people.

The tide of his anger swept him up the stairs and warmed his blood. An answering blast of body heat met him at the door. A crush of people milled in the grand foyer, spilling into the public drawing rooms and salons beyond the entryway.

It was a masquerade party — that much was clear immediately. The guests wore even more elaborate Elizabethan garb than the servants. Beneath the perfume of hothouse flowers, he smelled musty cedar. Some of the guests wore costumes that had been stored for decades, if not centuries. The gold and silver threaded clothes and bushels of jewels would do a maharaja proud.

Ellie’s birth, as the daughter of a duke absolutely obsessed with bloodlines, had always been high enough to attract a better class than Nick. Her current milieu said she’d found it.

He was tall enough to see over most of them. It had been a consolation years earlier, when they would have had him scraping at their feet. Now, it was merely a convenience. His eyes were already scanning the crowd, looking for red in a sea of blondes and browns and silvers, when someone tapped his elbow.

A servant stood at his side, frowning imperiously. Too young to be a butler — but then, the grooms were young as well. The servants weren’t just young, though. They were perfectly formed and immaculately dressed, as though Ellie had hired staff better suited to standing for her paintings than for menial labor.

Nick raised an eyebrow.

“My lady was most specific in the invitation about the preferred costume for this evening. Sir,” he added, with just enough doubt to set Nick’s teeth on edge.

“My lord,” Nick supplied.

The man colored slightly. “My lord,” he repeated. “My apologies. But still, the marchioness...”

Nick handed him his greatcoat, hat, and gloves, stripping them off with a predatory efficiency that made the servant flinch. The man almost refused, starting to gesture toward a cloak room. But Nick didn’t stop. “Send someone to air out my room. And tell me where to find the marchioness.”

“May I have your card, my lord?”

“No.”

He’d been in London five days and hadn’t ordered calling cards. It was likely an offense grave enough to have him tossed out of the House of Lords — but they would have half a dozen other reasons not to welcome him before they even reached matters of etiquette.

The servant swallowed. “If you would be so good as to wait just a moment, my lord, her ladyship will welcome all of her guests soon.”

He had stayed away from her for ten years. Part of him wished for another ten. Another part of him didn’t want to wait ten seconds. But he shrugged, let just enough displeasure show in his eyes to make the servant wince again, and waved a magnanimous hand. “Very well. I will find her myself after she’s greeted the guests.”

“Would you care for a mask, my lord? Not that you must take one, of course,” he added hastily, when Nick’s eyebrow slowly rose again.

He looked out over the crowd. Nearly all of the others wore costumes, not masks. Few would recognize him — few had known him, other than his fellows at Eton, and he’d seen none of them in over a decade. But if the servants were too dense to realize who he was, he would save the surprise for Ellie herself.

Maybe he would see something on her face to repay him for everything she’d done.

He turned back to the servant and took the mask he offered. He pulled on his formal gloves, obeying that social rule even if he cared for none of the others. And then he strode through the crowd, ignoring muttered huffs of protest as he elbowed toward the closed double doors on one side of the foyer.

If the house map his father had once drawn for him wasn’t an exaggeration built on years of exile, a massive ballroom lay beyond those doors. He had just reached a prime vantage point when the doors were flung open. Everyone turned en masse, chattering excitedly.

“Do you think she’s topped her Roman bacchanal?” a woman near him whispered to her companion.

“I do hope she’s brought back the opera dancers,” a man said, laughing at his wife’s mock censure.

“Of course her costume will be splendid. But I came for her chef’s efforts…”

Nick stopped hearing the people around him. They were drowned out by a sudden crashing in his ears, a roar that came from somewhere in the vicinity of his heart. Through the doors, he saw a throne. And on the throne, a queen.

Ellie.

Not a queen. An angel.

A devil.

His eyes blurred.

The servant who had greeted him before — perhaps the butler after all, despite his youth — cleared his throat. “The Marchioness of Folkestone welcomes you,” he announced, in a voice that wasn’t a shout but still somehow carried through the crowd.

Nick looked across the distance between them, over the heads of those who already moved down the carpet to greet her. The last time he’d seen her, she had worn orange blossoms in her red hair, his bloody cousin’s ring on her finger, and a smile that would have driven him to gut her if he hadn’t noticed, from where he lurked uninvited in the cathedral’s shadows, her downcast eyes and the uncertain tilt to her chin.

There was no smile now, but no uncertainty either. She wore a crown instead of orange blossoms and a golden velvet gown instead of sweet, innocent muslin. She looked regal, serene, just a little bored — a perfect match to her costume.

She hadn’t seen him yet, just as she hadn’t seen him at her wedding.

He smiled under his mask.

Tonight, she had no choice but to see him. And then…

And then he didn’t know, exactly, what would happen.

But this time, he would win.

---

CHAPTER TWO

Elinor Claiborne, the widowed Marchioness of Folkestone, didn’t see her doom when the ballroom doors opened. She didn’t even suspect that someone might thwart her plans. This night, for reasons that were a mystery to everyone else, was hers to command. Her guests saw it as a lively entertainment. But for her, it was a living painting, one in which all the players bowed to her artistic vision.

She was still confident in the spectacle she had created, even if her heart wasn’t entirely satisfied. The Folkestone ballroom was freshly decorated, redone for the fifth time in her tenure as marchioness. The walls were a light blue this time, with plaster half-columns and elaborate scrollwork to mirror the shape of the French doors on the wall behind her. The Tudor era guards were her addition — actors hired from the West End to look as perfect as possible with their pikes and helmets. And the guests who entered, two hundred lords and ladies from the highest reaches of the ton, were a river of jewel-toned velvet unleashed at her command.

Ellie sat perfectly still on her throne, slipping into her role — cool, unaffected, with a hint of steel. She usually enjoyed parties — and was grateful that she did, since there was precious little else to engage her time — but tonight she was on edge.

Her annual masquerade ball, coming at the start of a large, weeklong house party, would be Ellie’s last public display as the Marchioness of Folkestone. If she were cursed to bear the title and couldn’t bring herself to marry anyone else just to be rid of it, then surely it would be easier to bear it on some distant shore — somewhere with no memories left to torment her.

Her father’s sister Sophronia, the Dowager Duchess of Harwich, was at the head of the line, moving across the ballroom to greet Ellie with a speed that neither her age nor her extravagant gown could slow. “I trust you aren’t seeking a husband with this sudden display of respectability?” Sophronia demanded as she approached the throne.

Those who came to Folkestone this year expecting scarcely-clothed opera dancers or venues for tacitly approved rendezvouses would be disappointed — not due to some sudden change in Ellie’s morals, but to the presence of her less debauched siblings. Ellie drummed her fingers on the arm of her throne. “Did the Virgin Queen ever seek a husband?”

“Good,” Sophronia said. “I’ll grant you, I would be pleased to see you behave yourself after all this time. But I knew you had more sense than to relinquish the advantages of widowhood.”

She slid away before Ellie could answer. Ellie’s brother Ferguson, the Duke of Rothwell, and his wife stepped up to take Sophronia’s place. “Are there to be monkeys released into the crowd this year?” he asked. “Or have you hired some company to play Francis Drake and his band of pirates?”

She sighed as he kissed her hand. “I do not repeat myself, so no monkeys. They made a dreadful mess anyway.”

“A shame — when I heard of them in Scotland years ago, I almost begged Father’s forgiveness just so I could return to England and attend your parties. Tell me there shall be pirates, at least.”

“No pirates. Be glad, brother — at my usual parties, you might have seen your wife stolen away for the evening.”

Madeleine, his new duchess, grinned beneath her elaborate Elizabethan hairstyle. “I am quite happy with my lot, wretched as Ferguson is. But if there were to be pirates…”

She trailed off with a laugh as Ferguson whispered in her ear and dragged her away. Ellie resolutely turned back to the receiving line. But Madeleine’s laughter was a distracting hum under her perfect show of calm.

Ellie had always thought she wanted a carefree, unencumbered life — one she lived on her own terms, not her father’s or husband’s or anyone else’s. She hadn’t felt grief when her husband had died.

She’d felt relief.

But there was freedom…and then there was solitude. She liked to be alone. She didn’t need to surround herself with admirers to stay entertained, even if she did enjoy the social amusements London offered. The walls she’d thrown up had preserved her freedom perfectly, keeping her detached and untouched even when her house and calendar were full.

The cost, though...

Her eyes found Ferguson and Madeleine again. They stood a bit apart, sipping champagne — an island around which the crowd broke. There was no mistaking how united they were, even from this distance.

Ferguson’s hand slipped possessively to his wife’s waist. Madeleine smiled up at him, then leaned in to whisper in his ear. He laughed. Heads turned toward them, but he was too busy whispering back to care what others thought. He brushed a hand over Madeleine’s headdress and she swatted at him. They were complete together, somehow more than just the simple sum of two people.

She wanted that, with a harsh, bitter jealousy that poisoned her every time she saw Ferguson and Madeleine together. Her fingers curled on her throne. Something ugly seethed inside her, clawing at her, reminding her.

She had once had what they had. She could have kept it, if she’d been strong enough — if she had recognized the truth of what she felt for Nick rather than the illusion of approval her father had offered.

Ellie turned back to the next guest, her jaw firm. It all felt wrong, somehow. Not the dire wrong of an omen — she still didn’t know what waited in her foyer. But she had to find a way to silence all that regret. She had to stop.

Stop. Stop throwing parties like the noise could drown out her memories.

Stop throwing this party, every single bloody year without ever giving herself peace, on an anniversary no one remembered but her. The night that had once, long ago, seemed like a pure beginning, full of promise and light — but ultimately was the beginning of the end.

Did Nick remember tonight as she did, in whatever ancient bazaar or Mughal palace he was striding through right now? Or had he forgotten her so thoroughly that he didn’t even remember her enough to curse her name?

The receiving line stopped before her thoughts did, of course. Wasn’t that how it always happened? The musicians in the hidden gallery above the ballroom started the closing flourish of the processional they’d played during her guests’ entrances. She took a deep breath. No one had ever guessed that, beneath her reputation as the merriest widow in England, she hid a heart of ice. She wouldn’t let them see it tonight either.

She would dance like she was made of fire. She would indulge in her annual cry at the end of the party, a harsh jag of emotion that, once a year, she couldn’t contain.

And then she would wake up, play the perfect hostess for the forty or so friends and family she already regretted inviting, and then shut up Folkestone and leave for the Continent. If she couldn’t stop the memories, she could at least change the pattern of them.

The ballroom doors began to close. This wasn’t Almack’s, but Ellie demanded punctuality at this party and was formidable enough to receive it. But just before the door shut, a man shouldered it open.

Her eyes narrowed. He wore a plain mask that her servants kept for rulebreakers. His impeccably tailored evening suit was stark black and white — a shocking declaration in a crowd of people wearing the velvet and brocade she’d prescribed. He strode down her carpet like he owned it — not a penitent apologizing for tardiness, or even a green youth too exuberant to see the danger he was in, but a man who simply didn’t give a damn what her invitation said.

If there was purpose in his stride, though, his speed was almost leisurely. William the Conqueror might have walked to his coronation like that, already king by destiny if not by law. Ellie leaned back in her throne, feigning indolence even though her stomach flipped and her heart sped up. Later she wondered if she’d known, then, that her doom was upon her…

But she didn’t. She was a woman, not an oracle. All she felt was irritation that someone might dare to ruin her perfectly-planned display — and the tiniest, unacknowledged interest in finding someone who didn’t yet toe her line.

When he reached her throne, she extended her hand. “You’re late,” she said.

“Later than you know.” He crossed his arms. Her hand became an embarrassing relic between them. “The Virgin Queen suits you, Lady Folkestone. Even if we both know the adjective doesn’t apply.”

She dropped her hand. Dressing as Queen Elizabeth was her own private joke; there were always suitors in the wings, but she never intended to marry again. But her voice still turned to ice. “There’s no place for you at this party if you’ve only come to give insults.”

His lips were savage under his mask, so sharply defined that she might have cut them there with a palette knife. “Oh, there will be a place for me. You should have trained your staff better, Ellie my love. Once the Trojan horse is inside the gates, there’s no stopping it.”

Her mind fired wildly when she heard the old endearment, the one she’d never thought to hear again. The caress, the dark promise in his voice sounded like something she’d heard a decade earlier from a mouth not yet reforged by hate. She leaned forward, her control breaking under the onslaught of memory.

“Who are you?” she demanded.

He pulled off his mask and flung it at her feet.

The last time he’d flung something there, it had been a bouquet of flowers.

She looked down, expecting to see roses where the mask was — dead, brittle roses, the ones she’d kept until they’d crumbled to dust.

“Don’t say you still can’t bear to look at me,” he said.

“Nick,” she whispered.

Ellie never whispered.

She cleared her throat and forced herself to look at his face. He’d put on at least a stone of muscle in the last decade. It was little wonder she hadn’t seen the lean boy he’d been when he walked down her — his — carpet. But his face was taut and sculpted, with the same cheekbones and stubborn chin she’d painted any number of times. And his eyes were still a vivid, startling blue under the inky slash of his eyebrows — eyes that held darkness lurking within them now, even though he smiled.

Could it be called a smile, when all she saw was malice? The lips were in the right position and his teeth gleamed behind them — but more like a wolf about to take its prey than an old friend greeting her again. Ellie wished that the only reason he fascinated her was because capturing his feral appeal in paint would be a challenge. But her sudden flush, and all the heat building in her belly, had nothing to do with art.

She forced herself to take a breath. The musicians had, quite awkwardly, started another round of the processional. She was still aware enough of the crowd to notice the murmurs rippling across the ballroom as everyone turned toward her unknown guest. She smiled coolly, searching for the grace that had seemed unassailable moments earlier.

“I am sorry it took so long to recognize you, my lord.” Her voice was strong again. She would do anything before she showed how much it cost her to stay on that throne. “I had so nearly forgotten you, after all.”

“‘My lord,’” he repeated. “I heard in London that your father died a year ago. Pity. I would have liked to watch him as I took my place in the Lords.”

In another world, she might have liked it too.

“Why are you here?” she asked. “You vowed not to return until you had forgotten me, and yet you still seem to remember my name.”

“It would have been better if we had both forgotten.”

“You can forget me just as well here as anywhere else. Welcome to your home, Lord Folkestone,” she said, calling him by his title for the first time. She was gratified to see him flinch. “I’ll remove myself to London in the morning. If you’ve anything to say, please direct it to my solicitors.”

She stood, ready to descend to the dancing floor. She saw Lord Norbury hovering nearby — the escort she’d requested for the first dance, since he was attending without his wife and needed a partner. But Nick took her elbow before she could walk away.

“We have unfinished business between us, Ellie. Whatever else you may have forgotten, I assume you remember why I left. You owe me a conversation.”

He hadn’t come all the way from India to converse with her. The very idea was preposterous. And if anything, he owed her a conversation — or at least a chance to explain herself.

She couldn’t do it here, not in the middle of her — his — ballroom. He wanted something from her — something she would not like, if she correctly read the menace in his tone. But whatever he wanted, she couldn’t consider it when her heart still raced from his return. Changing the battlefield and giving herself time to regroup would at least put her on better footing.

She nodded, pretending that she was entirely unaffected by his touch on her arm. “The servants will see to it that you have a room and whatever accoutrements you require. Shall we adjourn until morning, my lord?”

He stepped closer, destroying the distance her words had attempted to create. For a dizzy moment she thought he would kiss her. His eyes looked the same as they had before past kisses — suddenly warm, intent, focused on her and only her. He leaned in, his lips almost touching hers. Hers parted of their own accord, ready physically even though she knew it was the worst thing that could possibly happen to her.

He wouldn’t — he couldn’t — kiss her in front of half the ton.

As it turned out, he didn’t kiss her. Her lips were impertinent enough to be disappointed. Instead, he turned and whispered in her ear. “I don’t wait for you — not anymore. Entertain your guests, but we will be having our conversation tonight.”

He was gone before she could protest, striding back up the carpet to the double doors. He didn’t leave, though. He leaned against a pillar beside them, as though guarding the room — or preventing her escape.

Norbury was at her side an instant later. “Is that man bothering you?” he asked. “I will ask the guards to see him out.”

Ellie shook her head. The final notes of the processional sounded again. She stepped over the mask that lay at her feet and gave her hand to Norbury. “It’s Folkestone,” she said briefly. “We’ve no cause to remove him, and even if he could be gotten rid of, I doubt those ornamental guards are up to the task. Shall we begin?”

Norbury was startled. It was evident from the sudden tightening of his grip on her hand and the chill in his voice as he said, “I thought he planned to remain in India.”

Ellie shrugged. “Didn’t we all?”

She feigned boredom, so well that Norbury didn’t press. He never pressed, at least not with her. They had never been lovers, but they had been friends for half a decade — and anyone who remained her friend knew when to leave well enough alone.

As the music started, she felt Nick watching, and frowning, from the opposite side of the room. She let her mind go blank. Her thoughts flowed away like water, as she had trained herself to do in those awful months after her wedding and sudden widowhood. She would dance the country dance, then a waltz, then a reel — every dance she had the stamina for, if it kept Nick away.

He would come, though. And when he did, she would find a way to be so calm, so remote, that he couldn’t possibly affect her again.

----------------------

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(Excerpt from The Marquess Who Loved Me by Sara Ramsey, copyright 2013. All rights reserved.)

Scotsmen Prefer Blondes - Preview

SCOTSMEN PREFER BLONDES is the second book in the Muses of Mayfair series. It is out now on Kindle, Nook, Kobo, Apple, Google Play, and paperback - check the purchase page for buy links.

CHAPTER ONE

MacCabe Castle, the Scottish Highlands - 23 September 1812

“Are you sure you want to do this, Prue?” Amelia asked.

Miss Prudence Etchingham turned away from the window. Her frown was answer enough. “No. But you must admit the tea Lady Carnach served when we arrived was better than anything my mother’s housekeeper can produce. I would happily marry the devil for those lemon cakes.”

Amelia crossed her arms. They’d had the argument in fits and starts all the way to Scotland, but there were only a few moments left before Prudence met her would-be fiancé. “Lemon cakes are all well and good…”

“More than well and good, I should think, if you’ve lived off my mother’s housekeeper’s soda bread,” Prudence interrupted.

“You can’t sell yourself for a cake,” Amelia insisted. “Your worth is greater than that of anyone I know.”

Prudence leaned against the edge of the bed, so high that she couldn’t sit on the mattress without boosting herself up onto it. “You are the only one who thinks so. The marriage mart gave up on me ages ago.”

They were in one of the castle’s innumerable guest chambers, already dressed for dinner and waiting for the gong to summon them downstairs. Amelia did acknowledge that the castle was vastly preferable to the Etchinghams’ lodgings in London. The castle was large enough that Amelia and Prudence had their own chambers — a luxury their spinster statuses rarely allowed.

If Prudence followed through with the plan her mother had made for her, though, she would have the entire castle, not a minor guest room. Most single women at seven-and-twenty would be delighted to entertain a proposal from an earl. But Prudence was pale under the light brown hair piled on her head. Her yellow gown only enhanced her pallor — it made her look sickly, not satisfied.

“You don’t need the approval of the marriage mart,” Amelia retorted. “If you could just wait a bit longer, perhaps one of your historical treatises could raise some funds for you.”

Prudence smiled, but her brown eyes were sad. “History doesn’t sell as well as fiction. And it’s better to marry than be trapped in spinsterhood with my mother.”

Amelia picked at a fraying thread on the edge of her glove. “I think we might escape in another year or two. Once I’m thirty, my mother will surely let me set up a cottage in the country. No one would remark upon it if you joined me. Then I could write my novels and you could study history as much as we like, without fear of discovery.”

“With what do you suppose we will pay for a cottage?”

“If neither of us marry, our dowries should maintain us. And anyway, if my books continue to attract notice…”

Prudence cut her off again. “Your dowry, perhaps. Mine won’t even buy a new pair of gloves. Mother says I should be grateful to have found any man at my advanced age and without a pound to my name. The fact that Carnach is an earl has her salivating even more.”

Amelia stopped picking at her glove with a guilty sigh and pulled it onto her hand. “Don’t you think that might be a reason not to marry Lord Carnach? You haven’t met him. Our mothers liked Lady Carnach when they shared a Season with her, but they know nothing of her son. She said he wants to go into politics — what if he is such a prig that no other woman would have him? Or what if his tastes are perverse?”

Her voice dropped on the word, but Prudence giggled. “I’ve seen all the same illustrations you have, Mellie. I can tolerate a bit of perversion for those lemon cakes.”

With a delicate blush sweeping across her cheeks, Prudence looked younger than she had in an age. Amelia sighed. “Don’t decide yet, Prue. At least wait until you meet him. He could be an utter ogre.”

“Of course I won’t have him if he’s an ogre. And I have no desire to be a political hostess, even for a hundred cakes. But I can’t turn everyone down like you have. This is likely my only chance.”

Amelia’s heart twisted. Other than her cousin Madeleine, who had recently married the Duke of Rothwell, Prudence was her best friend. And she was the sweetest girl in London, with a secret streak of humor that Amelia adored.

But sweetness and good humor were wasted on a woman who had no dowry. In London, no one paid Prudence any notice.

Would the Earl of Carnach notice Prudence? The real Prudence, the one Amelia knew? Or would he see her as a desperate woman who would be grateful for his title and his fortune, one who would do whatever he needed of her?

“Still, know that I’ll do anything you need to avoid this. If I have to write another book like The Unconquered Heiress, I will. It’s still selling like mad.”

Prudence frowned. “You shouldn’t take such a risk again.”

Amelia had written the satire in the spring, partly as penance for an argument with her cousin Madeleine, partly as revenge on the most repugnant of her would-be suitors. She preferred writing Gothic romances to social commentary, but the book had sold better than anything she’d written before.

“Perhaps it’s a risk worth taking if it saves you from Carnach,” Amelia said.

The dinner gong sounded — likely carried up the stairs by a footman and rung especially for them, since the guest wing was separated from the family wing by the vast expanse of the ancient great hall. Prudence pushed herself away from the bed and held out her hand to help Amelia stand.

“No, you can’t write another,” Prudence said firmly. “If anyone knew you authored the first one, you would have been ruined. And if you’re ruined, my mother won’t allow me to see you. So you have to stay safe, even if another book would buy you lemon cakes for life.”

Amelia grinned at that. “Very well, no satire. What about a Gothic novel in which a dastardly seducer lures a beautiful woman to his mountain castle, then forces her to throw parties for Whigs until the end of her days?”

Prudence swatted her arm. “Let me at least meet the man before you cast him as a villain.”

Amelia relented. They walked to the stairs that led down to the great hall. The castle was no longer shaped like a castle proper — as with many old estates, the original building had been added to, subtracted from, and renovated over the centuries. The great hall was intact, lined with tapestries, and the dais still held its ancient table for the lord and his family. Behind the dais, a passage had been converted into a portrait gallery, leading to the castle’s only remaining tower.

Amelia shivered as they passed through the hall to the stairs that led up to the family wing, which was more modern than all the rest. “If you do stay, make sure Carnach buys you well-soled slippers. You’ll catch your death here otherwise.”

Prudence didn’t laugh as easily as she normally did. “No more talk of death, Mellie. I need to concentrate.”

Amelia sighed. It only took a few moments to climb the stairs and walk down the hallway to the drawing room. When they reached it, Prudence paused just outside the door.

“Lemon cakes,” she muttered to herself.

Amelia laughed despite herself. “A battle cry that will live on for centuries, Prue.”

Prudence’s laugh was shaky, almost a sob. She squared her shoulders, cloaking herself in dignity like she wore the most expensive gown in England, not a plain muslin dress that was several seasons out of date. Then she stepped forward, ready to offer herself up as a sacrifice to replenish her mother’s fortunes.

Amelia followed, feigning serenity as her anger grew. Prudence didn’t want this, even if she needed it. And if Prudence wouldn’t demand something more for herself than this, Amelia would do whatever it took to find an alternative.

The MacCabes’ butler, Graves, greeted them at the door. “Lady Amelia Staunton and Miss Etchingham,” he announced, even though the gathering was small. She knew the women — her mother, Lady Salford, sat with Prudence’s mother, Lady Harcastle, and their hostess, Lady Carnach. Amelia’s brother Alex, the Earl of Salford, was there too, having grudgingly escorting them to Scotland.

The only man she didn’t know broke away from the group to stride toward them. Lady Carnach trailed in his wake, presumably to conduct introductions.

Amelia heard Prudence suck in a breath, felt her freeze beside her. If this was her would-be husband, he didn’t look like an ogre. He didn’t look like a politician, either — he looked like one of the old Celtic warriors come to life. He was tall, well over six feet, with a muscled frame that showed to complete advantage in his tailored eveningwear. His dark hair was longer than fashionable, and he had carelessly pushed it back in a sinful sweep that would make Byron foam with jealousy. His brows were thick over his eyes, and with just a quirk they would turn sardonic.

But for now, he was polite. He took Prudence’s right hand as Lady Carnach murmured the introductions.

“Miss Etchingham, I am honored that you have come to Scotland,” he said.

His voice rumbled, rough and sensual, under the cool welcome. Amelia’s eyes narrowed. It had taken less than a second to register Carnach’s appeal. With his title and his looks, why would he need to take a woman he’d never met as his bride?

Perhaps Prudence had the same doubts. She didn’t let go of Amelia’s hand, even after Carnach took her other hand into his. Instead, her grip tightened as though Amelia could save her.

If the earl noticed his would-be bride attaching herself to her friend like a barnacle — and with the sidelong glance he gave Amelia, he did notice — he didn’t remark on it. “I trust you’ve found the castle to your liking?” he asked.

The sound Prudence made was not one of delight. It sounded like a mouse realizing it was clutched in a hawk’s talons.

Just before it died of fright.

Damn. It wasn’t a ladylike thought, but Amelia didn’t feel like a lady. She felt like a general suddenly confronted with a suicide mission. She didn’t think Prudence should marry the man.

But she didn’t want Prudence to be embarrassed, either. Amelia squeezed Prudence’s hand, hard and urgent.

Prudence finally remembered what she was supposed to do. She dropped into a curtsey. “You have a lovely home, Lord Carnach.”

The curtsey was awkward, with Carnach holding one hand and Amelia the other, but Prudence successfully executed it. When she came up again, Carnach brushed his lips across her knuckles. “Thank you, Miss Etchingham. I hope you find much happiness here.”

His tone was gentler than before.

Prudence made another strangled sound.

Amelia smiled, pretending this was like any other house party she’d attended. “You are so fortunate to live here, my lord. We could not stop marveling at the scenery, could we, Miss Etchingham?”

It was an uninteresting observation, the sort of statement that made men preen and think themselves clever by comparison. But Prudence stopped choking. If they both stayed vapid and boring, as the ton had trained them to, perhaps Prudence could overcome her panic. The tactic had successfully hidden Amelia’s writing and Prudence’s academic leanings for so long — surely it would work now.

Carnach’s gaze shifted to Amelia. His eyes were grey, but grey was such a lusterless word for what they really were — the moody grey of clouds about to break, turning into quicksilver as he looked at her. His mouth turned up, just enough to show amusement without baring his teeth.

“The poets appreciate the scenery, I’m sure,” he said. “Will you regale me with a discussion of the weather next?”

Amelia would have laughed. Carnach knew the way the conversation was supposed to progress, and apparently had as little use for it as she did. But she couldn’t be at ease with him — not when his plans for Prudence still bothered her.

She eyed him coolly, holding her ground when he raised an eyebrow. “Would you prefer to discuss the chance of sun tomorrow? Or the chance of rain? I am prepared for either topic, my lord.”

“If it’s weather you care about, my lady, you’ll find the conversation here much to your liking,” he said, suppressing a grin. “But what of you, Miss Etchingham? Shall we discuss the weather as well? I don’t have any gossip to share that would interest you, I’m afraid.”

Prudence was looking beyond him to where Alex and their mothers sat. She didn’t answer, and the pause turned awkward. Amelia finally recalled her with another squeeze of the hand.

“I’m sorry, my lord,” Prudence said, a flush spreading across her cheeks. “I was woolgathering.”

Carnach smiled at her, but the quicksilver in his eyes had turned back into storm clouds. “We have wool as well, of course, if you’d like to discuss that instead.”

Prudence didn’t laugh at the jest. “Whatever you wish, Lord Carnach.”

His smile faded. Amelia had never heard that note of resignation in Prudence’s voice before. To Carnach’s credit, he didn’t seem to relish it either.

His brothers came into the drawing room then, and the relief on Carnach’s face was obvious. When he turned to greet them, Amelia leaned in to whisper in Prudence’s ear. “Don’t let him think you’ll be his chattel.”

“That’s what I’ll be though, isn’t it?” Prudence snapped. “No sense pretending otherwise. And no sense regretting what I might have had instead.”

There wasn’t time to try to convince her — Lady Carnach was already introducing them to the other MacCabes. The second son, Alastair, was the local vicar, and his angelic blond hair matched his role. Duncan and Douglas were twins, almost identical, with the same dark hair as Malcolm. But where Malcolm’s eyes seemed capable of brooding, she saw nothing but amusement on his brothers’ faces.

They were everything that was pleasant. Even a few minutes in their company made Amelia feel that she would enjoy her time in Scotland, regardless of the outcome.

And if any of them noticed Prudence’s distraction, when she should have tried harder to be amiable with her potential new family, they were too polite to mention it.

When it was time to go in to dinner, one of the twins claimed Amelia’s arm. “How do you find our weather, Lady Amelia?” Douglas asked.

She snorted, then tried to smooth it over with a cough when she realized he hadn’t meant it as a joke. “Do you think we will have rain or sun tomorrow?” she replied.

Douglas started regaling her with an old wives’ tale of how to predict such things. He turned her toward the door, and she looked up to find Carnach grinning at her.

The earl didn’t say anything about her choice of conversation, though. He turned back to Prudence and spoke to her with the soft voice of a horse tamer. If Prudence responded, her voice was too soft for Amelia to hear.

Amelia followed on Douglas’s arm, listening with half an ear to his stories. She’d been angry when she had walked into the drawing room, but she left it confused. She still found it suspicious that Carnach had fixed his attentions on Prudence — she loved her friend, but even Amelia knew Carnach could have looked far higher for a bride.

But why wasn’t Prudence responding to his charm? Perhaps this was like one of the Gothic novels Amelia wrote, and Prudence had recognized some dark omen, some latent evil, that Carnach hid from everyone else.

If this were one of Amelia’s stories, Prudence would try to escape. But Fate would have other plans.

Amelia shivered. This wasn’t a novel. Prudence could certainly do worse than Carnach. He wasn’t the villain Amelia had guessed him to be, even if he was entirely too smooth for her liking. She wouldn’t scheme to end the match, as she had originally planned — perhaps it was for the best if Prudence married him.

But if Prudence wanted to escape him, Amelia would be more than happy to help her.

~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~

CHAPTER TWO

In his study with his brothers three hours later, after a remarkably wretched dinner, Malcolm slammed his empty whisky glass down on his desk. “Do not say another word, Duncan. I’ve made my decision.”

Duncan and Douglas exchanged glances. Douglas gestured with both hands, an elaborate, sweeping movement ending with a suggestive curl, and Duncan laughed into his glass. The twins had developed their own language at a young age, and they still used it when they didn’t want to share their thoughts with others.

Malcolm scowled at them. “I know what that one means. Buying myself a whore won’t help matters.”

Alastair rolled his eyes in sympathy. “Don’t mind the twins, Malcolm. They’re still more boy than man.” Then he cleared his throat. “Of course, wisdom does occasionally come from the mouths of babes.”

Malcolm and his brothers had adjourned to his study after dinner. The Earl of Salford had declined, instead choosing to work on his correspondence, which is what Malcolm would have done if his brothers hadn’t forced him into retreating to the study and having a drink with them. “Retreat” felt like the right word for it. In the war to secure his clan’s future, the search for a bride was his prime objective. Tonight’s opening salvo had not gone as intended.

At least he had his brothers to commiserate with — although their commiseration usually made him feel better only because it redirected his annoyance to them rather than his other woes. At thirty-four, Malcolm was the oldest and had been responsible for all of them since their father’s death the previous year. Alastair was three years younger than Malcolm, and was the village’s vicar — not that he always behaved so piously. But the twins had just turned twenty-five, and with no wives, no incomes, and no houses of their own, they were a unified thorn in Malcolm’s side.

“I should buy you both commissions and be done with you,” he said, removing the stopper from the heavy crystal decanter to pour himself another drink. “Perhaps one of the India regiments so you can’t come home on leave.”

Douglas grinned. “You’ve threatened that since we were in leading strings. Send Duncan. He sports a uniform better than I do.”

“Only because I bathe regularly,” Duncan retorted. Then he turned back to Malcolm, ready to press his point again. “You cannot seriously intend to marry that chit, brother. It would be like legshackling yourself to a sheep.”

“Or a dishrag,” Douglas supplied.

“She’s not a dishrag,” Alastair said. “Miss Etchingham is just…a tad quiet for you, isn’t she?”

Malcolm glared at his turncoat brother. Alastair usually sided with him, not the twins. “Why should I not marry a quiet woman? It would be a welcome relief from hearing the lot of you criticize me at every turn.”

“Douglas and I are usually silent in our criticisms,” Duncan said. He emphasized it with another gesture to Douglas that had them both laughing again.

Malcolm had had enough. “Miss Etchingham is a very nice young lady.”

“‘Young’ is charitable,” Douglas muttered.

“A very nice young lady,” Malcolm repeated, raising his voice. “She was no doubt tired from her journey. As for conversation, I can’t blame her for not wanting to talk to any of you.”

“Did she talk to you?” Alastair asked.

They all knew the answer to that. Malcolm had escorted her in to dinner, made sure she had the choicest morsels on her plate, led her into discussions of the weather, the society pages, and everything else he could think of — but to no avail. Her answers were monosyllabic. Her countenance was almost bored. She kept glancing down the table as though hoping for a rescue. He coaxed one or two giggles out of her, but nothing that could be deemed joy.

He never failed to engage a lady in conversation. Even her mother, Lady Harcastle, who looked to be every bit the sour bitch his friend Ferguson had warned him about, had warmed to him.

Malcolm rolled his tumbler between his fingers. “You know why I have to marry. If I am to achieve enough influence in the House of Lords to save our clan’s livelihood, I need a hostess who can give the right sort of parties. Ferguson has vouched for her. He claims she can speak quite nicely. She has never caused a scandal. And she needs a husband.”

Alastair sipped his whisky. “Ferguson has only known her a few months. And why do you trust Ferguson’s judgment on society issues?”

Ferguson was Malcolm’s closest friend, but had left Scotland after unexpectedly becoming the Duke of Rothwell several months earlier. He was now married to Lady Amelia’s cousin Madeleine, which was how he knew both Amelia and Miss Etchingham. When Malcolm had decided to find a suitable wife quickly so that the wedding plans didn’t take valuable time away from his political aspirations, Ferguson was perfectly placed to recommend a possible bride.

“Ferguson understands society,” Malcolm said. “He just doesn’t care for it.”

“But if you want a hostess, shouldn’t you look for someone who can, say, host? And talk to people?” Alastair asked.

Douglas looked up from his silent side conversation with Duncan. “What about the blonde girl? She was quite talkative, if you didn’t notice in your efforts to sustain speech on your side of the table.”

The blonde girl. Such simple words for such a beautiful woman. When he had first seen her in the drawing room, it was all he could do to keep his attention focused on the woman he was supposed to marry. Amelia Staunton was lovely — taller than his would-be bride, with humor and intelligence shimmering in her sapphire eyes. She was also loyal, if her attempt to prop up her friend was any indication.

But she was not for him. “Ferguson said he doesn’t know anything about her past, other than that many men have tried to win her and failed. He said Prudence is the safer bet. If one of you wants to tie yourself to Lady Amelia, you’re welcome to. At least she would take you out of my hair.”

“She would be better than India,” Duncan mused.

Alastair eyed him as the twins returned to their conversation. “Lady Amelia does not seem unsuitable. She was all that was charming and witty at dinner.”

Malcolm hadn’t heard any of it. The formal dining table was simply too big, particularly when his mother seated him and Prudence slightly away from the rest of the guests to give them a chance to talk. But Amelia’s low, seductive laugh had cut through him during the awkward silences with Prudence. He would have happily traded places with any of his brothers if it had put him within range of her words.

“If Miss Etchingham does not wish to continue our acquaintance,” he started to say. Then he caught himself. “Miss Etchingham, given enough time, is far more suited for my needs. I want someone who is utterly beyond reproach, who will not bring any embarrassment or scandal, who will serve as my hostess and give me heirs. Her lineage is impeccable, and her financial position poor enough that she will be grateful for what I can give her. I am confident that we can manage each other quite tolerably. Lady Amelia can go to the devil.”

Alastair stared at him, his jaw uncharacteristically slack. “So you do want a dishrag — a dishrag who is grateful for you.”

Malcolm threw back the dregs of his second whisky. He thought about pouring a third, but it would only increase the censure in his saintly brother’s eyes. “What else would you have me do, Alastair? I am destined to marry for duty, not love. It’s the way of the world. And Miss Etchingham is good enough.”

“There are surely other women better suited to this duty than Miss Etchingham.”

“Perhaps. But I cannot spend months or years chasing after silly misses on the marriage mart. I must take up my seat in the Lords in November, and I’ll have this marriage business done before then.”

“I don’t think such haste…” Alastair said.

Malcolm cut him off. “I want to be noticed for my speeches, not my search for a bride. Why not marry the first woman who fits my requirements? Really, you should thank me for it — the faster I gather influence, the sooner I may put a stop to the landlords who are evicting their Scottish tenants to make way for sheep.”

Alastair shook his head. “Do you only see marriage as a duty? If I have learned anything from the church, it is that duty does not have to be joyless.”

“I don’t think that,” Malcolm protested.

“When was the last time you went to Edinburgh for pleasure?” Alastair asked.

“Or gotten properly foxed?” Douglas interjected. “And this drink doesn’t count — I mean well and truly soused, in the pub instead of alone in your study?”

“Or taken a mistress?” Duncan asked. “A female mistress, not an estate ledger.”

They all knew the answers. He’d devoted himself to entertainments like those when he was younger, not seeking marriage because there would be time enough for duty when he inherited. But he hadn’t done anything but estate business since his father’s wake.

Malcolm scowled at them. “You can do as you please. But I won’t have our clan forced to emigrate to America while I pursue some mindless pleasures.”

He was overstating it. The look Alastair threw him said they all knew it. No one could evict the MacCabes except Malcolm himself. But his tenants were starting to trickle away on their own, driven by economic policies that ruined the small crofters’ livelihoods.

And if none of the other Scottish landlords would stand for their tenants, Malcolm would try to stand for all of them.

Alastair rose, leaving his unfinished whisky on the table beside him. Duncan beat Douglas to the abandoned glass, draining it with a careless laugh. Alastair sighed, then looked back at Malcolm. “I will marry you to whomever you choose. But at least take care to make it a choice, and not just a business transaction.”

He left after that pronouncement, taking his cursed wisdom with him. Malcolm didn’t want to hear it. He didn’t want to hear it from the twins, either. He left them to the decanter and slipped out onto the terrace. In the dark, in the chill of early autumn, he could be alone with his thoughts.

And if his duty felt distinctly joyless in that moment, he ignored it.

~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~

Want to read more? SCOTSMEN PREFER BLONDES is out now!

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Excerpt from SCOTSMEN PREFER BLONDES by Sara Ramsey. Copyright 2012. All rights reserved.

Heiress Without a Cause - Preview

HEIRESS WITHOUT A CAUSE is the first book in the Muses of Mayfair series. It is out now on Kindle, Nook, Kobo, Apple, Google Play, and paperback - check the purchase page for buy links, or click to buy at the end of the sample. Happy reading! London - 6 April 1812

She stood outside her aunt’s ballroom and breathed as deeply as her stays allowed. She had walked into innumerable ballrooms in the past decade, but she still felt that old excitement — that moment of speculation, wondering if tonight would miraculously distinguish itself from all the other nights that stretched behind and before her in a dull grey line. Her life had all the color of a debutante’s closet. Since she would never wear the rich colors of a matron (or, better, a widow), that grey line was unlikely to change.

Chilton, her aunt’s butler, ushered her through the great double doors to the ballroom. “Lady Madeleine Vaillant,” he announced to the horde mingling below.

None of them turned.

They wouldn’t, after all. She lived with her aunt and had been a fixture at Salford House since her parents died eighteen years earlier. Still, the contrast between tonight, at this proper ball, and the previous night, in a very different milieu, was sharp enough to hurt.

Here, in a white muslin ball gown, with her brown hair tucked into a spinster’s cap, no one spared her a first glance, let alone a second.

Last night, wearing breeches and a wild, unkempt wig, everyone cheered at her feet.

She kept a vague half-smile on her face as she descended the steps into the ballroom. Aunt Augusta had trained her well, and she never displayed her disappointment when each night became just like every other. There were a few guests ahead of her on the landing, waiting to greet her aunt and her cousin Alexander Staunton, the earl of Salford. The delay ensured that her mask was firmly in place before Aunt Augusta saw her.

“Are you feeling well, dear?” her aunt asked when she finally reached them.

“Well enough, Aunt Augusta,” Madeleine said, making her voice sound the tiniest bit tired. She had feigned illness for the past two weeks and planned a final relapse the following night, but she couldn’t miss her aunt’s opening ball of the season. She should have come down almost an hour earlier, but she used her illness as an excuse to cut the night short.

Augusta frowned. “You should retire early. No one will miss you, I’m sure.”

She knew her aunt didn’t mean for the words to cut like a blade, but she still winced.

Then she sternly told herself to stop being dramatic. It was just one night, like any other night. Her aunt and cousins loved her, even if the ton didn’t. And her inconspicuous nature gave her the freedom to behave as she had the past two weeks — she should be grateful that she could take such a risk.

So she smiled and said in her sunniest voice, “I’m sure a ball is just what I need to recover. I feel better than I have in an age.”

“Don’t dress it up too much, cousin,” Alex said. “When have these affairs ever improved our health?”

He grinned, a fellow prisoner to Aunt Augusta’s expectations. He escaped more frequently than Madeleine, since he often chose his club over the events of the marriage mart. But if he hadn’t inherited the earldom when his father died, he probably would have left London entirely.

She grinned back. “There is always a first time. Perhaps Aunt Augusta’s ball will magically cure us all.”

Her aunt sighed. “Do try to behave, both of you. Not that I usually have to request good behavior from you, Madeleine, but your illness seems to have addled your senses.”

“Why do you say that?” Madeleine asked.

“You can’t fool me forever, dear. According to the doctors, there is nothing physically wrong with you. You just seem preoccupied — like my sister before she married her French marquis.”

Augusta pressed her lips shut after she spoke, the severe gesture marring a face that was still beautiful even in her early fifties. With her fading blonde hair and sharp blue eyes, she was an older version of her daughter Amelia, but her age had made her more circumspect. It was an unusual slip — she rarely mentioned Madeleine’s mother.

Madeleine didn’t respond. More guests arrived and she seized the opportunity to flee, with a stricken look from Augusta and another sympathetic smile from Alex. As much as she loved the adventure she had created for herself, and as much as she would cherish the precious memory of these past two weeks, she still hated lying to Alex and Augusta. At least Sebastian, Alex’s younger brother, was on his Bermuda plantation this year. She couldn’t have kept her secret from the cousin who understood her desire for rebellion.

But even he wouldn’t support her decision to risk everything and act on a public stage. And since she was too careful to be caught, no one beyond Amelia needed to know.

She took a seat at the edge of the ballroom. The chairs were new, upholstered in green velvet to match the lush new drapes. Aunt Augusta’s redecoration made the ballroom feel like a fairy forest, filled with the bright sounds of the hidden orchestra and illuminated by hundreds of candles in the chandeliers. Madeleine was just grateful that Augusta had replaced the chairs along the walls; the last batch had hit her just wrong, making her feet fall asleep at every ball.

As she settled in, her friend Prudence emerged from the crush. The woman sank into the chair beside Madeleine as though the effort of escaping the crowd had left her mortally wounded.

“Do you think Aunt Augusta bought these chairs because she knows we shall always sit in them?” Madeleine asked, too familiar with her friend to waste breath on greetings.

Prudence ignored her question. “Madeleine, you will never guess who is standing in your aunt’s foyer.”

Madeleine laughed. Prudence Etchingham was the academic bluestocking in their little circle, but she had a sense of adventure that she kept well hidden from her formidable mother. “Napoleon?”

“Even better.”

Madeleine would have liked for it to be Napoleon, if only so she could join the queue of people who wished to skewer him. Aunt Augusta would like it too — Napoleon’s death in her receiving line could only enhance her position as one of the top hostesses in the ton.

But killing Napoleon wouldn’t revive her parents or buy back her life in France. Before she could press Prudence about who was in the foyer, a disturbance at the top of ballroom steps caught her attention. It wasn’t a disturbance, precisely — more like an unexpected silence, which spread in a slow wave across the ballroom as people turned to the entrance.

Chilton cleared his throat with unusual vigor. “Her grace the duchess of Harwich. His grace the duke of Rothwell.”

The butler’s announcement, designed to carry out over the room, dropped like a cannonball into the crowd below. Heads snapped up from their conversations, dancers missed their steps, and Madeleine heard the shattering of at least one champagne glass. They hadn’t noticed Madeleine, but they couldn’t ignore the latest arrival.

Rothwell had finally returned to London to claim his title. He had last been seen nearly a decade earlier, when everyone knew him as Ferguson — a third son with no prospects and a scandalous reputation. Now, inheriting a dukedom in circumstances that the ton had speculated about for over a month, he was a sensation.

“I thought he went mad,” Madeleine whispered.

Prudence shook her head. “I heard it was the French pox that kept him out of London, but he looked healthy enough when I saw him in the foyer.”

“He could look quite healthy and still be mad, Prue. His brothers were always pleasant enough. But why did he choose to make his first appearance at Aunt Augusta’s ball?” Madeleine asked, watching him bow over her aunt’s hand. “I heard he arrived in town days ago. And Aunt Augusta is powerful, but not powerful enough to wait for.”

“Perhaps he had to wait for the moon to turn so that he could appear sane,” Prudence said with a giggle.

Madeleine stifled a snort. Even at this distance, Rothwell’s dark auburn hair gleamed in the light of the massive chandeliers. Sophronia, the duchess of Harwich and his father’s sister, stood beside him, more ramrod straight than usual. She looked ready to battle anyone who might have an opinion about her nephew — not that anyone would dare to cross one of the highest-ranking women in Britain.

“Rothwell hardly seems cut up over his father’s death, does he?” Prudence observed.

She was right. The new duke wore a tightly fitted dark blue jacket and buff breeches, without even a black armband to indicate mourning. Madeleine had heard that he skipped the funeral, and his attire suggested that he intended to forget his father entirely.

Lady Amelia Staunton, Aunt Augusta’s only daughter, joined them then, taking the chair on Madeleine’s left. “Isn’t this a shock! I would dearly love to ask him for the real story of the old duke’s demise, if only I thought he would share it.”

Prudence laughed. “You would care more about the story than anything.”

“Better a story than some dry treatise on ancient Babylon,” Amelia said. It was their usual argument. Prudence wrote academic papers — under a male name — that were well received by other scholars, but Amelia secretly wrote novels. If Madeleine could pursue her artistic passions as easily as they did, perhaps she wouldn’t feel so restless.

She tried to redirect them to the topic — or rather, the man — at hand. “You can’t ask him what happened to his father, Amelia. The Times said it was a carriage accident, and we must leave it at that.”

“Of course the Times would say that if they were paid enough. I like the rumors better.”

“Your Gothic sensibility has addled you, dear,” Prudence said primly. Then she grinned. “Of course, patricide in powerful families is a common historical theme.”

Amelia smiled victoriously. Madeleine rolled her eyes before turning back to watch the new duke. He finished with Aunt Augusta and strode down the steps like he owned them, already so in command of his title that he took others’ deference for granted. A half-smile played on his lips, as though he expected such toad-eating and was amused by it.

If that were all Madeleine saw, she would have hated him on sight. Arrogance was not a trait she found attractive. He had gone into exile in Scotland a year before her debut, but she had heard enough to know that even as a third son, he was never humble. Still, the amusement lurking on his face intrigued her. It was almost like he was playing a role — and laughing at those who could not see through his deception.

She knew how that felt.

The old urge to dance flared up again. This time, it was the partner she desired more than the movement. She bit down on her desire before it fully formed. The most notorious rake, now duke, in London would never notice the spinster she appeared to be.

Near the base of the steps, where he could still survey the room, he turned to his aunt. She made a gesture toward the back of the room — more precisely, toward Madeleine’s circle. Rothwell raised his quizzing glass to examine them, the amused look never leaving his face. Then he set off again, lost in the crowd.

Unless Sophronia warned him away from their corner, there was little doubt that he would soon appear in front of them.

“Prepare yourself, Amelia. You may get to ask your question when he dances with you,” Prudence said.

Neither Amelia nor Madeleine disagreed with Prudence’s assessment of the duke’s intentions. Of the three of them, only Amelia still attracted suitors. Madeleine could have landed a husband if she wasn’t so shy in her first years and bored in the later ones — while her dark hair and green eyes were unfashionable, her uncle Edward had given her a dowry equal to Amelia’s, and it was large enough to cover any number of flaws. Prudence had light brown hair and serious brown eyes, but worse, she had no dowry and no hope of attaining one.

But Amelia, with her blonde hair, blue eyes, silver tongue, willowy figure, and substantial fortune, was always in demand. She had also developed a reputation as “the Unconquered,” which led each year’s crop of bachelors to worship at her altar in hopes of being the one to win her.

Amelia didn’t like the attention. She would rather be at the family estate in Lancashire, writing novels. But she didn’t deny her popularity either. It was easier for all of them to evade suspicion if they appeared in the ton as they should, and so Amelia attended these parties as though she lived for them. There were times — like when she wanted to dance — that Madeleine almost hated her for her popularity, even though she would never admit it.

Unfortunately, this was one of those times. Madeleine steeled herself for the moment when she would watch Rothwell lead Amelia away. She tried to relax, to remember that she was in the midst of a different adventure — to tell herself he was just an arrogant rake and forget that she had spied something else lurking beneath his façade. She might never dance with Rothwell, but withering away from boredom did not have to be her fate.

The crowd thinned in front of them. Rothwell emerged like a predator stalking out of the forest. His clothing civilized him, and he still looked amused, but there was a primal intensity in his eyes that Madeleine had not seen when he entered the ballroom. He seemed to be on a mission, determined to make quick work of whatever he had come to accomplish.

Sophronia stepped forward and conducted the necessary introductions. Rothwell bowed to all of them — a spare, elegant move that had not suffered from his rustication.

Then Sophronia made a heart-stopping gesture toward Madeleine. “She’s the one you need, Rothwell. Do get on with it.”

His deep blue eyes hadn’t left her since they were introduced, but until Sophronia’s comment, Madeleine had pretended otherwise. She finally stopped staring at his cravat and dragged her gaze up to his face.

That insufferable smile was back. “Will you do me the honor of this dance, Lady Madeleine?”

He was already reaching for her, not waiting to hear her acceptance. The waltz reached for her too, and she longed to twirl around the dance floor...

...but not with someone who took her obedience for granted. She was tired of being a dull, well-behaved spinster. She had vowed that this season would be different — and so far, it was, even if Amelia and Prudence were the only ones who knew of her rebellion.

So despite her desire to dance, and the deeper desire to know the secrets hiding behind his smile, she looked coolly at his hand before meeting his gaze with a direct one of her own. “I do not dance with rakes, your grace.”

He stared at her, stunned, and dropped his hand to his side. Some part of her screamed, demanded her to take back the insult and beg for a dance. It was a lie anyway — or rather, she would happily dance with rakes if they ever thought to ask her.

She waited for him to become a glowering version of a man scorned — but a genuine smile replaced his affected grin.

“You are correct, Aunt Sophronia. Lady Madeleine will do well enough.”

Sophronia humphed. “I did not bring my nephew over here so he could ruin you, young lady. But he has a proposition for you that I strongly desire you to accept.”

The dowager duchess was one of Madeleine’s favorite older matrons, even though she was a known battle-axe. Madeleine unbent just enough to look at Rothwell again. “What proposition would you like me to consider, your grace?”

“Please, call me Ferguson,” he said. “Are you sure you would not like to discuss this while dancing? I shan’t bite, I assure you.”

Prudence nudged her. The duchess fixed her with a glare. Only Amelia left her alone, too shocked to know what to recommend.

Madeleine sighed and took his hand, letting him lead her to the floor. The guests they passed examined them with undisguised curiosity. With her hand firmly in Rothwell’s grasp, she was attracting more notice in these five minutes than she had in the last five years.

She wanted to curse, but she held her tongue. Her secret activities over the past two weeks depended on maintaining her usual anonymity. The duke’s unexpected notice of her would not help her cause.

He pulled her into the waltz and they settled into the rhythm of the dance. The caricatures of him that were so popular a decade earlier often mentioned his “hellfire” hair, but it was darker than she had expected, almost brown, with just enough warmth in it to look like a dying ember. With her hand resting lightly on his shoulder, she could feel the firm muscle beneath his jacket — as though he was used to manual labor, not endless games of whist. And her right hand, clasped by his left, was sensitive enough that she could feel his calluses even through her glove. She knew a few men whose pursuit of the hunt left them well muscled, but she had never met a duke who had the body of a... laborer? Warrior?

Whatever he was, he was too elemental for a ballroom, despite his perfectly tailored clothes.

He turned his attention to her with a brilliant smile that was equal parts alluring and dangerous. It was a smile designed to melt, to seduce, to turn a woman’s legs to jelly.

Even though she knew his flattery for what it was, it still worked.

“So will you call me Ferguson, or shall I languish in despair without your favor?”

“I’ve no doubt you will find any number of women who will call you Ferguson.”

He expertly navigated her around a slower couple. She began to feel that intoxicating, breathless wonder that only happened when dancing with a perfect match. “And is that a comment on the morals of your fellow debutantes, or an aspersion on my character?”

She laughed despite herself. “Both, your grace.”

He smiled again, but this time it looked natural — almost like he was enjoying himself with her. “I confess that I’ve little use for propriety, Lady Madeleine. Perhaps I can call you Lady Mad? You could drive me mad if I gave you the chance.”

It was the same harmless flirtation that couples participated in all over the ballrooms of the ton. But it rarely happened to her. So it was with just the slightest hint of suspicion that she said, “I trust you will think otherwise when you have been out in society for a few weeks.”

The duke rolled his eyes. “I could have been in London for years, but I chose to remain in Scotland. Do you think I am unaware of London’s dubious charms?”

From the path he cut the last time he was in town, she suspected he knew all of London’s charms quite well. The reminder of the rake he was — and the duke he had become — pulled her out of their banter. “What is it you want from me, your grace?”

“Sophronia said you wouldn’t suffer fools. It is why she recommended that I approach you with my delicate request.”

He couldn’t want to marry her, but she couldn’t think of anything else a man might ask a proper young woman, particularly not in public. She nodded at him to continue, holding her breath...

“Would you be willing to chaperone my sisters?”

She missed a step. A marriage proposal might have actually been preferable, even from a man she had never met.

He steadied her without losing the tempo of the waltz. “My twin sisters are already one and twenty, and they should have come out years ago. Unfortunately, our family tends to lose someone every season, and they’ve been in mourning for ages. Sophronia said they could benefit from someone younger than her to shepherd them, and Ellie...”

He broke off abruptly. Ellie was his sister, the widowed marchioness of Folkestone — and her reputation was not what one would desire in a chaperone.

“Why me, though? Surely you have other connections.”

“Yes, but none I can stand above an hour. Too much moralizing. And you’ve surely heard the rumors — according to Sophronia, half the ton thinks we’re mad.”

She colored slightly, but he didn’t notice her guilty look. “You, on the other hand — my aunt says you’ve a perfect reputation and impeccable intuition, which would do much to help the twins debut successfully despite the family’s current reputation. But she also said you have felt poorly for the past few weeks, so if you prefer not to chaperone my sisters, I understand.”

The duchess’s concern was misplaced. If she knew why Madeleine was “sick,” she would cut her without a second thought.

Then Madeleine realized the full implication of what she was being asked to do. She suddenly, quite unexpectedly, felt like crying. If the dowager duchess of Harwich, one of the foremost etiquette experts in the ton, thought Madeleine could chaperone two unmarried girls, it meant Madeleine was so firmly on the shelf that no one expected her to ever come off it.

Even though it was true, it still hurt.

She wanted to say no, if only to deny the implication that she was unmarriageable. But if her less than perfect behavior ever came to light, she would need powerful allies to see her through the storm. There was no stronger ally than Sophronia — and if Madeleine chaperoned the duke’s sisters, he would have a vested interest in making sure her reputation stayed secure.

“Very well,” she said. “I would be honored to chaperone your sisters.”

Their waltz ended shortly thereafter. She was desperate to leave the man who thought her only value was as a chaperone, but she still felt a pang of regret. Rothwell was an excellent partner, even if he was a rake. She tried to remind herself that he had learned those steps and that heart-melting smile with a whole regiment of other ladies before her, but that didn’t make him any less entertaining.

When he left her with the other spinsters, she sank into her chair. She looked around, half unseeing, resisting the desire to bury her face in her hands. Everything in the room, from the wallpaper to the door handles, had been added in the last few months. She wiped her hands on her skirt, even though she couldn’t do anything about the clammy feeling under her gloves. Her dress, her cap, her slippers, even her undergarments were all new. But she felt like something old and broken accidentally left in the remade room, waiting for a chambermaid to notice and sweep her away.

Twenty-eight shouldn’t have felt old, but now she knew for certain that it was.

How perfectly depressing. At least she had one final night of adventure ahead of her, even though no one could ever know about her daring. One last night to enjoy who she might have been — before she resumed the life she had neither chosen nor found a way to escape.

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Excerpt from HEIRESS WITHOUT A CAUSE by Sara Ramsey. Copyright 2012. All rights reserved.