Chapter 1

"Can you not stuff your cleavage with cotton? I know that most men prefer an ample bosom. You are not even trying, Rose," Winston whined.

That wasn't the reaction Rose had been expecting when she walked slowly toward the carriage, every step filled with dread. She could see her cousin's silhouette, his sharp-beaked nose, the pits in his cheeks, teeth grinding his jaw with anger. He was always angry about something. She took a deep, fortifying breath before allowing a footman to help her into the carriage.

Winston turned his head sharply, and his eyes narrowed as they swept her frame from head to toe. She knew she was presentable. The periwinkle blue muslin gown she was wearing with its square neckline and high waist highlighted her shapely, if small, breasts perfectly before falling to the ground in an A-frame, making her tall, slim build seem even more willowy. Her long chestnut hair fell down her back in a plait, held back by a silver and diamond diadem.

She had matching earbobs in her ears and a velvet choker around her neck, embedded with a diamond. She'd done her best to look well for this ball, even if she did not want to go. He couldn't possibly find anything to complain about, yet he had.

Her brow furrowed. "I do not believe in deceitful presentation. If a man is to choose me, he should know what he is getting."

He snorted derisively. "If a man were to know what he is getting with you, no man would ever choose you."

In spite of the fact that she had no liking for her cousin — viewed him in fact as an interloper in her life — his words hurt.

"Well, you had better hope you are wrong; otherwise, you will be stuck with me forever."

"Ha! As if. I shall marry you off soon if it kills me. I shall not shoulder the burden of your upkeep for much longer. It is not my responsibility."

Rose felt a lump in her throat as the carriage lurched into motion. She had had no chance to even grieve for her father. He had died six months ago, leaving the title and his property to his closest male relative — her cousin, Winston Keats.

He left her a hundred pounds a year for the rest of her life and her dowry.

His death had been sudden, an apoplexy when he was out on his morning ride. Rose barely had a moment to adjust before her cousin barged in, wanting to change everything, and wanting her gone from Handers Estate, her childhood home. It was extremely painful and depressing.

"Chin up. Nobody likes a sullen lady," he snapped as the trees lining Mayfair whipped past, seeming threatening in the dark.

She glared at him. "I know perfectly well how to behave, thank you very much!"

"Well then, act like it."

They bickered bitterly all the way to Anmer Hall where the Beastly Duke, as he was known, was throwing a ball for his sister. Were it not for the fact that the regent was thought to be attending, she doubted very much that anyone would have bothered to go.

Of course, there was also curiosity. Since the duke had returned from the West Indies, he had been reclusive. No one had seen him much. This ball was the first time he was inviting Society into his domain, and even then, he was holding the ball at a public location and not his residence.

That did not stop a long line of coaches from winding down the road to Anmer Hall through the charming garden that led to the mews. The place was brightly lit as various footmen walked toward each carriage, umbrellas aloft, ready to escort guests inside.

Winston even looked impressed for a moment. "Seems he's really put himself out. Must have cost a fortune," he murmured.

Rose raised a discreet eyebrow, surprised at her cousin's vulgarity, but she ignored him, not wanting to start another fight. With a sigh, she stepped out as her door was opened, accepting the footman's hand as he helped her down. She did not wait for her cousin but started walking straight to the brightly lit entrance, teeming with people.

John stood in front of the looking glass in his rented dressing room, staring at himself. Nasonby strode into the room, a steaming towel in hand. "Please sit back down, Your Grace. I have yet to neaten your beard."

With a put-upon sigh, John did as he was asked. "How is it downstairs? Have guests begun to arrive?"

"Ha! The line stretches all the way down Mayfair Street. But you knew that already since you put it about that the regent might attend." Nasonby gave him a sidelong glance in the mirror.

John chuckled bitterly. "What else was I to do? I don't want Portia disappointed."

"Your sister will find a husband, ball, or no ball. But I suppose it will bring all sorts out of the woodwork to see what the Society pariah looks like these days. In that vein, are you sure you do not wish me to shave your beard?"

"No." John said firmly, "I would not recognize myself. And I think I have sold enough of my soul for these people."

"Mm." Nasonby said noncommittally.

"And besides that, I'm sure at least some of the interest lies in the hefty dowry Portia comes with and rumors of the wealth I returned with from the Indies. Whoever started that rumor forgot to mention that it was for his majesty's coffers."

Nasonby chuckled. "Well, a man rumored to have killed his parents surely wouldn't quibble about stealing from the Exchequer."

John's mouth twisted. "I cannot believe that rumor is still going around."

Nasonby sneered, "Society consists of a lot of idle, bored ladies with nothing to do but rehash old gossip until they find something new to latch onto. Don't let it bother you, sir."

"I don't care. I just worry for Portia."

"Well, you'll be happy to know she doesn't care either and has been known to loudly defend you in the salons. She will be all right."

John suppressed a pleased smile. At least Society had not managed to break his sister.

Being in London was suffocating, and he could not wait to get back to Dorrison Manor with its cold stone floors and rooms that echoed emptily, the furniture dusty from disuse. His uncle tried his best, but he was no homemaker, and he had never married.

With a sigh, he straightened his black evening jacket, brushed non-existent lint from his shoulders as he straightened them, and marched out of the room with determination. He walked slowly down the corridor until he came to the chambers that Portia was occupying. He knocked softly.

"Portia, dear, are you ready?"

"Just a moment!" she called from inside, and he sighed with impatience. Turning his back to the door, he leaned against it and crossed his arms as he waited. He could hear the hustle and bustle going on downstairs and knew that guests were arriving. As much as he was not looking forward to it, he was impatient to get greeting of the guests over with, so he could leave it to Portia to charm them while he lurked out of sight.

He had begged his uncle, Andrew, to host the event in his stead, but Andrew had categorically refused.

"Your presence would spur the morbidly curious, and the town gossips will be scrambling to attend if only to see whether you look as beastly as they imagine you."

John smiled thinking about it. He was not so blind as to not realize his countenance was quite unappealing. It was unusual for a man of his station to have a beard, but as far as John was concerned, there was nobody to stop him. He caressed it slowly.

I suppose one could say a man with so much facial hair is quite beastly.

He snorted to himself, smoothing back his hair that was tied in a queue at the back of his head, blending seamlessly with his black jacket. He didn't want to disappoint the hoi polloi by not giving them something to look at.

The door finally opened, and his sister Portia appeared. For a moment, he forgot to breathe, blown away by how much she resembled their mother. "You look…beautiful," he said.

She grinned like the charming brat she was. "Thank you." Looping her arm through his, she quirked an expectant eyebrow at him, "Shall we?"

He nodded, taking a deep breath. "We shall."