Prologue

Hilltop House, hunting lodge to the Earl of Glenfield, November 1816

The sound of laughter—shrill, brandy-fueled—echoed around the terrace. Sebastian breathed in, smelling the heady smell of liquor, dew, and perfume in the cold air. It was familiar; the smell of every party he had heldat this hunting lodge. He breathed out and reached for his drink, gazing contemplatively into the depths of the brandy-glass.

"Dash it," he murmured to Matthew, his friend who stood beside him on the terrace. "I think I'm losing my touch."

"What's that, old fellow?" Matthew asked, a pained expression on his face. "It's so awfully loud out here."

"I said," Sebastian replied, feeling sour, "that I think I'm getting old. I don't seem to feel alive like I used to." He sighed, still staring at the amber liquid. It held no appeal for him—it was, well, just brandy. The party was just a party. The noise was too loud and the company, while certainly colorful, didn't excite him as it would have done just a year earlier, when he was thirty. He ran a hand through his thick, dark hair, feeling confused.

His friend stepped closer. "What was that, old fellow? You feel old?" Matthew grinned; his brown eyes sparkling. That crooked grin of his had lit up the most tiresome days at university. He and Sebastian had attended Cambridge together, where Matthew read law, while Sebastian read history. Sebastian had thought that he would die of boredom—not because studying challenged his brain overmuch, but because he found everything tiresome after a while. With Matthew, at least there was always some crazy exploit they could indulge in, like running in the woods in winter or daring one another to jump naked into the frozen river. Sebastian smiled fondly, recalling those times.

He stared around the party, his dark eyes narrowing as he did so. People of all sorts were there. Mostly, they were his noble friends—as the Earl of Glenfield, most of his friends were part of the Ton . But mixed in with the company were actors, dancers and people from other, even more questionable professions, pouring in from the nearby town of Chatham. They were all welcome—the more the merrier, and actors and dancers were much livelier than the average nobleman.

"Yes," he murmured. "I feel old." His eye roved across the colorful company, the women in low-cut gowns, bright velvet clashing with brighter silks. People laughed and joked, and one group surrounded a man who tried to climb a tree amidst drunken yells of encouragement. That sort of foolery would have delighted Sebastian once. Now, he thought it merely a little silly. "I'm too old for this sort of thing," he continued quietly.

"Nonsense," Matthew chuckled.

"What? Nonsense?" Sebastian shook his head. He considered sipping his brandy, but the smell repelled him. He put it down on the table nearby. "It's not nonsense, old chap. I'm one-and-thirty years old."

"And I'm only two years younger than that, so mind your tongue when it comes to calling yourself old." Matthew grinned. His auburn hair was bright in the light from the window.

Sebastian sighed. "I don't really mean I am old; old fellow." He looked out over the lawns, searching for an explanation. "I mean I feel old."

Matthew snorted. "It's one o' clock in the morning, Glenfield. I would be surprised if you were bursting with vitality."

The familiar nickname from his title, the Earl of Glenfield, warmed him as much as his comment did. Matthew always lightened matters. Sebastian inclined his head. "I suppose you're right."

He didn't know how to explain it—even in his own mind, it made limited sense.

"Come on!" Matthew called briskly. "Let's go and see what those fellows under that tree are doing. Looks like old Ackroydhas got himself stuck in that tree. That's a lark, eh?" He was laughing, clearly amused by the foolery of the group on the lawn. Sebastian sighed again. Maybe a few days before, he would have laughed and joined in the fun, but after a week of parties at the hunting lodge, it had lost its appeal.

"Hey! Hey!"

Sebastian's gaze whipped round at the sound of a yell. He tensed, the shout sobering him instantly. He had drunk sparingly, and the sound of the shouting was like ice down his spine.

Something was very wrong.

A woman screamed, and then other screams followed, and Sebastian ran. He headed straight for the direction where the screams were coming from—a group on the lawn, closer to the house than that beside the tree. Most of the people there stood still, while others were running from the same spot. He sprinted, long legs carrying him effortlessly across the lawn to the crowd. He pushed his way forward, avoiding the women who ran from the place, yelling and screaming.

"What's going on?" He demanded, confronting a man he knew from Cambridge who was standing nearby. Damn the brandy! He couldn't recall his name. He'd never had a gift for names.

"It's Emerton," the man explained. "He fell. He was up there," the man rambled, slurring a little and pointing. "He was up there, and he fell. Broken bones for sure."

"What?" Sebastian went cold.

The Earl of Emerton was a distant cousin—albeit a very distant cousin—of the Prince Regent. If he had injured himself at one of Sebastian's drunken gatherings, it would mean trouble. The Regent might live a colorful life himself, but certain things he abhorred in his courtiers. Anything that led to violence and people being hurt was one of them. Sebastian's heart started to thump loudly, and he looked around desperately, searching for someone who might be able to help.

He glanced at the crowd. People had gathered around the spot, and the press of bodies was too tight for him to see.

"Out of the way!" he shouted, feeling his heart race. "Everybody! Get out of the way. Let me pass."

"Keep your hair on, Sebastian," a drunken man yelled at him. "Old fellow's not going to get up for some yelling."

"What happened?" Sebastian demanded.

"The earl of Emerton. He was on the balcony," a tall, slim man explained. Sebastian tried to focus; certain he didn't even invite the fellow to his party. He thought he might be someone else he knew from Cambridge, but he didn't remember him. "He was waving to somebody down here in the garden. I think he was watching the fun there." He jerked his head at the group around the man climbing the tree. "He leaned too far out. He fell. I think...he could have broken something, my lord."

"Oh..." Sebastian shut his eyes. The man could be dead. The balcony was on the first floor, but it was not impossible, if he fell truly badly, for the man to have broken his neck. The ground was stone hard. Sebastian waved his hands, trying to get the crowd around the earl to clear.

"Clear a path! Clear a path!" he yelled firmly.

Slowly, the people dispersed. He reached the body and bent down. He held his breath, heart thudding. The man was lying on his side, his face white, his body not moving. Sebastian put his hand at the man's neck, taking his pulse. He slumped in relief.

"He has a heartbeat."

He let out a breath he hadn't known he was holding. The man seemed alive, if unconscious. He breathed in, smelling the strong smell of liquor. The earl was breathing, but slow, shallow breaths and Sebastian wanted to cry in relief. He wasn't dead—he had most likely just passed out.

"Help me move him," he called out to the group of people who lingered nearby. Two men stepped forward, one of them the tall, slim man who had explained earlier. They dragged the body over to the shelter of a nearby tree. As Sebastian stood up, he tensed. He could hear someone shouting.

"What in the world?" The sound echoed over the terrace. It was his father. Sebastian felt sick. His stomach twisted as his father's voice continued in a roar. "What is wrong with Lord Emerton, there?"

Sebastian stiffened. "He's fine," he told his father, who stalked across the lawn, his tall form bent over. "He's just...well...he fell. Not too far," he admitted. He looked into his father's eyes. Dark, like his own, they were slit with rage.

"You let the Regent's cousin fall? What did he fall off? Does he still breathe?" Papa demanded. Sebastian drew a breath. His father had always been indulgent, but his rage was a terrible thing. He felt his cheeks redden with shame.

"He is still living," he managed to say. "I will summon a physician to assess him. I believe...I believe he is just unconscious." He looked away, not wanting to see the rage in his father's eyes.

"This has gone too far."

"I know," Sebastian murmured. He looked around. Even in his own mind, he had started to realize that. The parties, with their loud laughter and outrageous guests, had not appealed to him for the last two days. He had gone too far, and he knew it. He looked around. "Wait a moment, Papa," he murmured.

"I'm not moving," his father answered.

Sebastian breathed in a sigh. He might be one-and-thirty, but Papa was still in charge of the estate, his own title of Earl of Glenfield and all the estates and privileges were just a courtesy granted him as the Marquess of Ramsgate's eldest child. He waved his hands, trying to get the people to listen.

"Everyone! We need to return home. The Earl of Emerton lives, but the physician needs to be summoned to tend him. I would appreciate it if you could all retire to your homes."

He repeated the message several times, until even the most inebriated guest was helped from the lodge by his friends. Then he turned to his father.

"It's time you settled down, son," his father murmured wearily.

"Papa..." Sebastian felt his hands tense at his sides. This was an argument he and his father had had several times in the last year. He didn't want to hear it at this moment, with the shock of the earl's accident still running like fire in his blood.

"No, son. I mean it. It's not just...not just because of incidents like today. It's for you. For me. I'm old. I'm not well." His face—so like Sebastian's own—was gray with weariness this close up, and haggard with lack of sleep. Gout plagued the older man, and he was often short of breath. Sebastian felt his heart twist with pain.

"Please, Papa. Don't talk about...about..." he didn't want to say it. Papa had been his only parent—his only companion in the world, besides Matthew. His mother died a few days after his birth, and he and Papa had become exceptionally close. Papa was his only family. He could not lose his father.

"Son, I know. But it's a fact. I'm old and I'm not well. I don't want to die before I see my grandchild. Please, son. I want you to do this for me. In fact, I'm telling you to do this for me. I want you to find a wife. I'm giving you a year. By this time, next year, you will be wed. Or else."

"Or else?" Sebastian swallowed hard.

The old Marquess smiled; his dark eyes lined in wrinkles. In so many ways, they were exactly like Sebastian's own. "Or else I'll find you one, son. Think on it."

Sebastian let out a breath. "Yes, Papa," he murmured. He looked around. Servants had already begun to tidy up, moving tables and chairs back into the house, tidying up the terrace. The earl had been moved inside, and the physician's cart was halted on the front lawn. He let out a long breath. It could have been worse. He was lucky—and he was lucky his father was not furious.

His father smiled again and sighed, turning towards him. "Good, son. I know you can do it."

Sebastian felt his heart twist. "I'll do my best, Papa," he promised. He felt sick.

He heard his father limp indoors, and he stayed where he was. The lawns were dark under the night sky, which was midnight blue over black shadows of the trees. The air still smelled like dew and somewhere nearby the stream was audible again, babbling in the still night. He took a deep breath.

Life at the hunting estate might have become tiresome, but how much more tiresome would it be, shackled to a dull, uninteresting woman? Papa certainly wanted him to marry someone respectable—and respectable meant dull and ordinary. It would be horrid, being tied down into a respectable, boring, ordinary life.

Anyone Papa found would be tiresome and proper. And he just didn't think he could share his life with such a person. No, someone in his world had to be lively and bold. And whoever Papa found was certainly not going to be like that. He was almost certain of it.