Prologue

PROLOGUE

M oonlight lit the path as they ran, hand in hand, giggling like adolescents through the garden maze.

Miss Poppy Featherstone had never done anything like this before. And if her mother or father knew she was doing it now, they would grab her by the other hand and yank her back to reality.

But fortunately, she and Dougal Mackay, the Earl of Reay, had been discreet when they'd gone out onto the balcony for fresh air. Discreet as they slipped into the shadows of said balcony. Discreet as they sneaked down the stairs to find the elusive statue in the garden that had supposedly been made in their host's great-grandfather's likeness, including the protruding codpiece he insisted on wearing.

The entire adventure was scandalous.

If discovered, she'd be banished from society—that was for certain. But Poppy didn't care. What Poppy wanted was to be alone with Dougal Mackay. To listen to his jests and tease him back. To hear him whisper about things no one ever told a lady, like the statue.

Her friends were so preoccupied with finding husbands that they wouldn't notice she was gone. Her sister was home tucked up in bed, pouting at being a year too young to attend a ball. Mama was off gossiping with her friends, and Papa was drinking brandy with his Parliament cronies in a corner.

That meant Poppy wasn't likely to be missed, at least not for a little while, and if she needed to, she could always hail a hackney and disappear into the night with a footman letting her parents know she'd gone home due to some fictional ailment.

But for now, she wanted to concentrate on Dougal Mackay, the Earl of Reay, and his strong, firm hand holding hers. The crunch of the gravelly path beneath her slippers, the cool night air on her heated face.

"'Tis just around this corner, I swear it," Lord Reay said.

"That's what you said about the last corner."

"It has been nearly a decade since I've seen it. Do ye suppose they've taken it down?"

"I dearly hope not. I was very much looking forward to seeing it."

"Which part, my lady?"

Poppy laughed because his teasing was so raw, so real, so unfettered. Everyone in society was always tiptoeing around the right things to say. But not Dougal. He said what he was thinking and observing, and she liked that.

They'd known each other a couple of years, but it was only this season she'd caught his attention. Already they'd danced and danced at every ball they could.

Tonight was the first time he'd invited her onto the balcony for air, a place where most people went to receive a kiss. But he'd not kissed her. She'd thought he might, but he kept looking toward the garden maze. Enough so that she'd actually turned around to see what he found so fascinating, which was when he'd imparted to her that he'd witnessed firsthand the scandalous statue.

They came to another dead end, and Dougal stopped. He ran a hand through his dark hair, looking perplexed.

"All right, I'll give ye a boost, and ye see if ye can see the statue's head."

"A boost?"

"Aye." Dougal dropped to one knee and patted his other knee. "Step here, pretend I am a stool."

She wanted to tell him he was a rather handsome stool. Impossibly tall with muscles she wanted to squeeze.

"All right, but if you drop me, we'll have to come up with a proper excuse. My mother would become apoplectic to learn I'd stepped on you."

Dougal chuckled. "I promise." He slapped his thigh just above his knee. "Now step."

Poppy pressed a hand into his thick shoulder and squeezed as she placed her foot on his strong thigh and hoisted herself up. She wavered slightly, and Dougal grasped her on the bum.

"Oh," she gasped.

"Sorry," he said with a chuckle. "I didna mean to grab ye there."

Oh, but she didn't mind. He resituated his hand at her calf, and even that was scandalous and delicious all at once.

"Do ye see anything?" he asked, pulling her back from all the thoughts swirling in her head from his touch.

Poppy peered over the garden hedge and wondered if anyone back on the balcony of the London manse would notice. She could certainly make out their shadows, but thankfully, she couldn't discern any faces, which meant she was likely in the clear.

Across the hedges, all she saw were rows and twists and turns of more hedges. "Not a single marble head," she said.

"That's disappointing. We'll have to continue our search."

"I suppose we will." She looked one more time to be sure, but there wasn't anything that resembled a statue, only foliage and air.

Poppy started to step down but wobbled and then lost her balance. Dougal's reflexes saved her from a hard landing in the gravel, his arms catching her around her back, her bottom landing on his still-propped thigh, and she grasped hold of him around his shoulders.

Their faces were close. The moon reflected in his eyes the color of the night sky.

"I'm so clumsy. Thank you for catching me," she managed to say.

"It wouldna do for a lady to land on the ground. Ye might ruin your dress." His brogue was raspier than usual, and his eyes skimmed down to her mouth.

Neither of them made a move to let the other go. Poppy licked her lower lip, hoping for the kiss she'd thought she was going to get on the balcony. She and Dougal had a real connection, one she thought might very well lead to a proposal. It wasn't as if men were lining up to propose, and daring the think that Dougal might—perhaps that was the most unsensible thing she'd ever done in her life. And Dougal Mackay ticked off all the boxes on the list she'd made last year.

Charming.

Funny.

Handsome.

Strong.

Scottish.

Not dull.

Kind.

But most importantly, he had lips made for kissing, and after spending much of her adolescence reading romance novels, she was ready to find a man who swept her off her feet.

And then his mouth was on hers. A soft brush of his lips, and she sighed into his kiss. His lips were warm, velvet as they pressed to hers. His breath fanned softly over her cheek. For all she'd imagined a first kiss to be, this was it, the moment she'd been waiting for. And it was heaven.

Dougal lifted his face away for a moment, staring into her eyes, imploring, questioning. And she did the only thing she could think of—where her hands rested at the nape of his neck, she nudged, urging him back to her mouth.

"Ye…" was all he said before he pressed his lips to hers again. Only this time, the softness melted into heat.

His tongue swiped the seam of her lips, and she parted on a gasp. That subtle opening had his tongue slipping inside to slide wickedly and deliciously across her own. My goodness, she didn't know this was possible in a kiss. Tongues…so decadent. She'd never be able to eat or drink or lick her lips without thinking of this moment, of Dougal Mackay.

And maybe she wouldn't have to. For if he'd invited her out to this garden, danced with her at ball after ball, and now was kissing her, then certainly this meant he wanted her to be his wife.

Knowing that a proposal was forthcoming only heightened her excitement—her desire—and she leaned into his kiss, boldly copying the swipes and licks and nibbles.

The spicy, earthy scent of him surrounded her, doing something wild to her senses. Everything inside of her seemed to come alive with a tingling heat that increased until her skin felt like it was afire and only his touch could put out the flames. Except they blazed hotter.

This was wicked and oh, so very scandalous. If anyone were to see them... she'd be ruined forever. Oh, who was she trying to fool? The moment his lips had touched hers, she was done for. She was powerless to make herself stop.

And so, she kept on kissing him, finding a home in his arms and the pleasure he wrought on her mouth. If he were to ask her right then and there, she'd let him own her completely. Dougal Mackay was, without a doubt, the most captivating, intoxicating man she'd ever met.

Dougal deepened the kiss, passion and desire fueling them both, but when she whimpered from some place in the back of her throat where inhibition had taken over, Dougal pulled away. He stared into her bemused gaze with hooded eyes that bespoke of desire. His lips were as wet and swollen as hers felt. The two of them were equally ravished by a kiss that had devoured them whole, body and soul.

"My lady," he murmured.

"Poppy."

"I'm sorry," he said, the desire on his face seconds ago evaporating into something akin to…fear?

That couldn't be right. Why was he afraid? His kiss had been divine…

"You don't have to be sorry."

He shook his head. And in a move so deft it was as if he'd practiced it a thousand times, he stood with her in his arms and stepped away.

"I shouldna have done that. Ye…we…" He ran his hands through his hair, and she felt uneasy.

The heat centered in her belly turned as cold as ice. Was he…rejecting her?

"What's wrong?" she asked. "A moment ago…"

But she didn't want to give voice to the fun they'd had as they ran through the maze, the fantasy of his kiss dissolving as if a dream she had awoken from as he turned his back and walked—nay, ran —away from her.

Mortification took hold, and all Poppy could do was stare dumbfounded at the man—her dream, her future—as he disappeared from view and her life.