Prologue

Prologue

Tranton House, London, 1818

As a society darling, Lady Eleanor Tamsworth, daughter of the Earl of Bromley, never thought she'd find herself embroiled in a scandal, yet here she was. The worst of it was that she hadn't actually done anything wrong, no matter how tempted she had been.

"You can complain all you like, young lady," her father said, glaring at her over the top of his half-moon spectacles, his blue eyes sparkling with anger. "The fact of the matter is, you made a fool of me, this family, and yourself. You will marry Lord Richards regardless of your feelings towards him. He is wealthy, titled, and decent, which is far better than you can expect, given the situation you have put yourself in."

Eleanor snorted despite herself. "And he is fifty years old if he's a day," she snapped. "You can't seriously expect me to—"

"You brought this on yourself," he roared, irritated by her blatant insolence. "You tainted your reputation with your … your loose morals, and now—"

"Loose morals!" She cried the words, throwing her hands up in the air and shaking her head. Surely he couldn't be serious? "Father, I told you before, I merely rode in a carriage with Lord Everton—"

"Without a chaperone," he retorted. "What actually happened matters not, as we both know."

The pair were in the parlour of Tranton House, recently decorated in the latest mode. The seats had been upholstered in canary yellow damask that matched the drapes, and the walls were lined with intricately detailed wallpaper. It had once been Eleanor's favourite room in the house because it felt like she was stepping onto the sun's surface, but after today, she doubted she would like it at all, as if it were the room deciding her fate.

"This whole thing has been blown entirely out of proportion," she declared. "And you, Father, are merely perpetuating the rumours by insisting I marry that ugly old man!"

"Be careful, Eleanor," he said, his voice low and intimidating. "That ugly old man is a dear friend of mine, and he is the only solution to your current dilemma."

Her father paced the room, his footsteps leaving marks in the thick shag of the Turkish rug, while Eleanor sat barefoot on the couch, watching him stride back and forth, back and forth. He was pensive by nature, but since the incident that had caused her downfall, it all seemed so much worse.

"My reputation may well be tainted, but the whole thing is entirely unjust, and surely you, an intelligent man of some age and experience, must recognize that. I would have thought you'd be on my side."

"I am on your side, Eleanor, which is why I have arranged for you to marry Lord Richards. You will end up a spinster otherwise."

Eleanor huffed and leaned back in her chair, her arms crossed over her chest like some irritated child. She couldn't believe how drastically her life had changed in the last month. Where before everyone adored her and she had endless prospects, now it seemed she was an outcast, and her only prospect was that found by her father—and no doubt some money was changing hands.

All she did was travel home with Lord Everton. It was true there was no chaperone. Though it was not by design, Eleanor had found the whole situation exciting at the time. To be so near a man with no one watching had sent shivers down her spine, her mind filled with the secret images she normally only focused on at night, in the privacy of her own bedchambers.

The truth was, Eleanor couldn't wait to marry, for she was truly desperate to taste the sins of the flesh. She'd certainly thought about it often enough.

With anyone but Lord Richards!

But that afternoon, with Lord Everton, nothing had happened other than in her mind, and now she was paying the price for something much worse. The injustice of it was enough to send her into a blind fury, and she had more than once thought that if she was going to have to pay the price, she should have allowed herself to misbehave during the actual incident.

She hadn't expected a backlash as serious as this, merely for travelling with a man. She should have known better. The ton were a fickle bunch.

She sighed and leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees.

"Perhaps there is someone else you could ask, Father," she tried, hoping to placate him with her sweetness and thereby change his mind. It had always worked so well when she was a little girl, but its efficacy had waned of late. "Another of your friends at the club, perhaps?"

"You think I haven't tried my very best, girl?" he snapped. "No one wants a sullied woman, let alone one as young as you. Consider yourself lucky that Lord Richards wants you at all."

Lucky? She would have laughed if it were not quite so tragic. If she became Lady Richards, her life would be over. Her chance of happiness would disappear. And love? She shook her head. There could be no love with a man like Lord Richards, and love was all Eleanor truly wanted.

That and what love brought with it.

She believed she deserved it, too. At twenty years of age, she was a beautiful young thing—or at least, she'd been told that many times. Elegant and graceful with a willowy figure, she knew she caught the eye of many a gentleman when she sashayed around ballrooms and across gardens, but it was always with a soft naivety and a gentle kindness.

She kept her rich chestnut hair in loose curls that cascaded around her face, giving her an air of sophistication. Her eyes were blue, like those of her father, who glared at her now. But while his eyes were cold and piercing, hers held the warmth of the summer sky and spoke of an intelligence that terrified many of the ladies in the ton .

She was resilient by nature and would fight her father every step of the way. Her spirited independence and sharpness would make her difficult to outwit, though she had learned everything she knew from the earl himself. He would be a worthy opponent in this battle, though she was determined he would not win.

"You cannot have spoken to every man in London," she tried. "How about a businessman, if not a nobleman?"

Her father snorted this time. "And why, pray tell, would you lower yourself in such a way even more? Though I'd hoped you'd marry up, at least Lord Richards is an earl and not a commoner."

"Why?" She allowed herself a small laugh as he reached the pianoforte, turned on his toes, and retraced his steps back to the window. "Because Lord Richards smells of onions, and I don't think he's had an interesting thing to say in his entire life."

He turned to her and snapped. "And who are you to say such a thing when you are incapable of following a very simple set of rules, Eleanor? You know you are not permitted to be alone with a man, especially not when a chaperone is always available."

Because I couldn't resist.

"It was mere circumstance that led—"

"Circumstance! If Everton himself had any decency, he would have ensured you wait—"

"Alone and at risk and in the pouring rain? Father, inviting me into the coach was the most gentlemanly thing he could have done. And besides, the coachman was sitting up front, barely three feet away from us."

Her father turned again, marching back to the pianoforte . "That is as may be, young lady, but it doesn't matter. Your reputation is in tatters, and there is no going back nor answering for it. The only way for you to recover from this and for this family to move from under this cloud is to find a husband. I have done that for you, daughter. You should be grateful to me instead of continually disrespecting me in my own home!"

Eleanor groaned. She had made such a mess of things, and she did hate it so when she and her father argued. He was a good, caring man in truth, and he was doing what he believed was the best for her. But Eleanor had never been one to believe in the rules of society, which, to her, seemed entirely arbitrary.

And she would do everything in her power to ensure she did not have to marry Lord Richards—nor anyone else who did not take her fancy.

"But surely you can see how unfair all this is," she tried again.

"Unfair doesn't come into it," he replied, turning once more. "The matter has been decided and that is that."

"Decided?"

Eleanor's gut churned. The word decided made it feel all the more real, as if perhaps she hadn't had a chance to talk her father out of this after all. She'd thought that, perhaps, this was merely conjecture, discussion, but decided was firm and unrelenting.

Her father stopped pacing and looked directly at her. His cheeks sagged, and beneath his eyes were dark circles. He looked at her with a range of pity and anger and annoyance and love, and Eleanor didn't know which emotion to focus on.

"Yes, Eleanor. It has been decided. Fair or otherwise, you must accept the consequences of your actions. You will be married to Lord Richards in two months' time. The sooner you get used to the idea, the better."

Without another word and not allowing for negotiation, the Earl of Bromley rushed out of the parlour in a storm. Eleanor fell back on the chair, her breath taken suddenly. Two months!

"My Lady? My Lady?"

The hurried whispers came from Bea, Eleanor's devoted lady's maid and best friend in the entire world. They'd grown so close in the fifteen years they'd been together.

At thirty-and-five years of age, Beatrice Hawthorne was petite and nimble. She had a grace that matched Eleanor's own, meaning she could easily navigate the world of the ton as well as help Eleanor face the challenges it brought. She was neat and tidy, with her chestnut hair in a small bun and her brown eyes warm and loyal.

She was as intelligent and quick-witted as her lady, and to Eleanor, she had an unwavering commitment. They'd often joked that they were the same woman, walking different lifetimes, and in so many ways, that was true.

"Oh, Bea," Eleanor cried, turning to find comfort in her maid. "Did you hear?"

Bea nodded. "I heard it all. I'm so sorry, My Lady. It's truly awful what your father is suggesting."

"Demanding, not suggesting," Eleanor replied. "Oh, Bea, what am I going to do?"

Beatrice joined her on the couch, smoothing down her skirt before sitting to avoid creases. She wore her usual schooled expression, which belied any emotion, but Eleanor could see her mind working behind her eyes as she searched for a solution. Her dearest Bea always sought ways to make her lady's life easier and better.

"I don't know," Bea replied. "But leave it with me. We'll come up with something, I promise."

Eleanor shook her head. "I don't think it's possible this time. Father is adamant, and he is right when he says it is my own fault, even if the furore around all this is unjust. Lord Everton and I—"

"I know, My Lady. You would never do such a thing."

"But—"

Their conversation was cut rapidly short when the butler entered the room.

"My Lady," he said, "please forgive the intrusion, but you have a visitor."

"A visitor!" Eleanor looked to Bea for an answer. Her mind was in far too much turmoil to warrant a visit, and she was certain she would not be good company. But it was rude to turn people away, and it had been so very long since anyone had visited. "Who is it?"

"Lady Genevieve Lockhart, My Lady," Beaumont replied.

"And she wishes to see Lady Eleanor?" Bea asked, in as much shock as Eleanor herself.

Indeed, since the scandal broke almost a month previously, Eleanor had not received a single visitor—neither male nor female. It seemed everyone was avoiding her for fear that they, too, would be tainted.

Even though I did nothing wrong.

"Lady Genevieve?" Bea whispered. "Isn't she the pretty one with hazel eyes that Lord Stirling had his eye on?"

"The very same," Eleanor whispered back.

"Shall I show her in, My Lady, or tell her you are otherwise engaged?"

Eleanor looked at Bea, who looked back at her. The two then shrugged. It may not have been a good time for visitors, but seeing as Eleanor needed every friend she could get at the moment, she knew she had to give an audience to Lady Genevieve.

"Show her in, Beaumont. Thank you."

The long moment between the butler leaving and returning with the lady was tense, silence filling the room, and when they finally did arrive, things were not much better. Lady Genevieve swept into the room, looking as distraught as Eleanor felt, and she plonked herself down on a hardbacked wooden chair, throwing her reticule uncaringly onto the card table.

"Oh, Lady Eleanor. It's all so terrible. You will take tea with me, won't you?"