Prologue

London, England. 1816

Robert let his eyes roam the room as his mother droned on about his duties for the evening. His skin practically crawled beneath his meticulously tailored and horrendously expensive evening jacket, but he kept his shoulders squared and his chin level.

Do not allow your chin to dip low lest people assume you are weak prey. And raising it too high will make people believe you think yourself better than everyone else. Even if that is true, one does not want to give off the impression that you know it.

His father's rules and lessons repeated themselves in his mind whenever he was in a crowd. Robert wasn't even sure he would be able to behave naturally amongst strangers anymore. Unless this was his natural state. It was impossible to know after a lifetime of training to appear a certain way.

He noted his sister Jessica across the room, standing beside her husband, Lord Drake. She smiled and laughed with her friends as the older man stood dutifully beside her, chatting with Lord Reid.

Do not allow your eyes to linger too long on one single person.

Robert slid his eyes to the next cluster of people. Lord Wood had his wife's hand tucked close to his body as he smiled down at her. Unsurprisingly, beside Lady Wood stood her sister-in-law and good friend, Miss Morgan. Robert let his gaze linger a bit longer as Miss Morgan laughed at something her brother said. She leaned close, her eyes dancing with delight as she imparted some tale to her entourage.

The young woman had always intrigued him, though he would never admit such a thing beyond his own mind. While not a woman he should consider—due to her outspoken manner and quick, sometimes unshielded tongue—she always seemed at ease no matter the occasion. And as someone who could not understand such a feeling, it drew his attention more than he wished.

Before anyone could notice Robert's observation of the young woman, he forced his gaze to the next person, until finally, he chose to stare unfocused at the couples dancing in the middle of the room.

"Robert, you really should ask a girl to dance." His mother's voice trailed to his ear and he swallowed a desire to sigh.

Do not allow yourself to sigh, son. Nor should you roll your eyes, twitch your nose in distaste, or anything else that might give away what you are feeling. You are to be a duke one day, Robert. You need to maintain a distance from people. One wrong word or glance and the rumors will spread like wildfire. It is a privileged life, but not an easy one.

"I do not like to dance," he finally replied. Dancing required talking with someone he barely knew. If it was only a matter of talking business, then it would be simple. But with women, one had to discuss things that interested them , of which he was entirely ignorant. So, when called upon to complete the task, he danced in silence. He could perform the steps of any dance precisely and with ease. Those things someone could practice and learn and perfect. But conversation? How did one practice such a thing? To him, it simply seemed an unnecessary addition to the occasion.

His mother turned to him. "I understand you do not enjoy it, but you are thirty-one years old, Robert. Your father would be most displeased to discover you have not married yet. Simply pick a lady and get on with it." She threw her hand out at the crowd.

As if choosing a wife was as simple as selecting which jacket to wear that day. Yes, his title would make the task simple once he set his mind to it, but the thought of living with a woman—someone he would have to talk to and care for—every day. He could not even picture such a life.

"If I ask a lady to dance, would that appease you, Mother?"

"It would be a start."

Robert's eyes defied him, flicking to Miss Morgan without his permission. And then, against all odds or logic, as if some cruel fate had given her his secret, her brown eyes locked with his.

If someone happens to catch your gaze, hold it for approximately two seconds. If you look away too quickly, it will appear as if you did not want to be caught watching.

Robert mentally counted the beats as his heart stammered in his chest.

One . . . She held his stare. Two . . . Her eyes were a lovely shade of brown . . .

He broke their gaze, and while every nerve in his body screamed at him to dip his eyes to the floor, he forced them to remain steady, looking just above everyone's head in the room. He tapped his finger against his leg.

"Robert." His mother's soft demand stilled his hand.

It was habitual at this point. Rarely did she need to remind him of his father's orders, but there were times when his father's early lessons slipped from her tongue as if Robert were still a child.

"If you wish me to marry, then perhaps you should stop treating me like a mere boy," he said, pressing his hand against his leg and stilling his fingers.

If you cannot stop the finger tapping, Robert, I suppose pressing your hand to your leg is acceptable. At least it will not draw as much attention.

His mother bristled beside him. "I am only trying to help. Besides, if you wish me to treat you like a man, then I suggest you behave as one and ask a woman to dance."

"Very well." He said the words calmly, even though his mother's demands itched across his skin like it had been exposed to the sun for too long, leaving it dry and burnt.

Be sure to choose your voice inflection carefully. Keep your tone flat, unless you feel the situation could benefit from you showing interest. Believe me. An even tone is much more intimidating than a dandy who bounces about conversations with smiles and laughter. Demand their respect without ever asking for it.

Robert made his way along the border of the room, keeping his steps measured and slow. The last thing he wanted to do was draw attention to himself. But despite his best efforts, eyes swung in his direction. Ladies raised their fans, speaking in hushed tones as he passed. Little did they know their attention only made him uncomfortable as he set to his duty.

He stopped and conversed with Lord Griffith, then made his way farther across the room. That was his tactic. Talk—take another step. Talk—move a little closer. Until finally, he stood beside Lord Wood, Lady Wood, and Miss Morgan.

"Ah, Your Grace." Lord Wood gave a small bow, quickly followed by Lady Wood's and Miss Morgan's curtsies. Lord Wood straightened. "A rather interesting discussion in the House of Lords yesterday."

Thankful for a topic he knew, Robert spoke with Lord Wood for some time before a pause in conversation allowed a natural break for him to give his attention to Miss Morgan.

The young woman did not blush or dip her head as the newest debutantes did. While this was at least her fifth season, that had never been her way. He had danced with her the year of her coming out, and she had behaved just as she did now. Confident and comfortable.

"Miss Morgan, do you have any dances available?"

She smiled. The action was full of all sorts of things and Robert drank them in like a man parched for water. It was not a smile to indicate politeness. Rather, it was as if she was sharing a joke with herself and laughing without ever saying the words aloud.

"Your Grace, as a woman who has been out for five years, you can rest assured that many are left. Pick whichever you desire."

Lord Wood sighed, drawing Robert's attention just in time to see the exasperated roll of his eyes. "Just say yes, Louisa," Wood begged.

"And where would the fun in that be?" Her grin turned wicked as she held the card out to Robert.

His eyes danced across the lines. She was correct. Only two names were currently written on the card while the other lines remained vacant. He wrote his name beside the cotillion—a safe dance as it did not require constant closeness as the waltz did, while not as energetic or ridiculous as a reel.

"Thank you, Miss Morgan. I look forward to it." He was just about to step away when she spoke again.

"Look forward to it as one looks forward to the opera, or look forward to it as one politely says when receiving an unwanted dinner invitation?" Her eyes slid up from his chest until they met his. She raised a brow as her grin tucked itself in the corner of her mouth—as if she were trying her best not to give in to it but could not help herself.

He stilled. Lord Wood raked a hand over his face as Robert tried to decide which course of action he should take. How was he to answer her question? Knowing he did not have the luxury of an hour to dissect all his choices, he said the first thing that came to mind. "I do not enjoy the opera." There. A simple fact.

If you do not have the benefit of time in a conversation, then go with the honest answer. It does not require thought and cannot be brought against you later as a falsehood.

Miss Morgan narrowed her eyes, her grin widening ever so slightly. "I suppose I have not given you much choice in the matter then, have I? You are released from a need to reply."

Rather than say something that might be misconstrued, Robert dipped his head in farewell and slowly made his way back whence he came. Whispered words teased his ears as he walked away, but he did not give them his attention. Instead, he began his process all over again. Walk, stop, talk. Until finally, he was right where he started. As far away from Miss Morgan as possible.

Unfortunately, Robert was forced by a nosey and pushy mother to ask for another young lady's hand in a dance before the one with Miss Morgan. In fact, he was up to a total of three sets for the evening. Which, in his opinion, was three too many. But when the cotillion began, his feet seemed to move to claim his partner with a bit more speed than with the others.

Miss Morgan's mesmerizing eyes gave him a quick perusal as he strode toward her, making his self-consciousness grow tenfold.

But he did not let it show.

"Are you ready?" he asked, holding his hand out to her.

She grinned. "I am ready. But the better question is, are you?"

He swallowed his nerves, gathering himself. "Yes. I am very capable of performing the necessary steps."

She turned her head to look at him, chuckling. "Well, I rather hope the dance will be more enjoyable than mere mechanics. Has the infamous Duke of Boroux not mastered the art of flirtation whilst dancing?"

No. He had not mastered that particular art. In fact, it sounded rather loathsome to even attempt. He pressed his finger into his leg to keep it from pattering away. "I do not believe that is a skill I have or shall ever acquire."

"A pity." She kept his gaze as the steps to the cotillion began, all the while wearing a secretive smile.

His skin felt too hot, and he found it difficult to keep eye contact. She seemed so comfortable, so at ease. Her movements were graceful and fluid, and while his were correct, they lacked the nuance of anything beyond competence.

"Do you believe you can add conversation to your precise dance steps?" Miss Morgan asked as she slid behind and around him.

Words stuck to Robert's tongue as his mind searched for an answer. The cravat around his neck suddenly felt too tight, and the room grew even warmer than usual.

"Do not worry yourself," she continued. "I see it would be too much of a burden. I shall not ask it of you."

He mulled over his options before opening his lips to speak. "I fear whatever I would have to say would hold no enjoyment for a lady such as yourself."

"Well," she said, her honey gold eyes glinting in the soft candlelight, "is there anything I might say that you would find entertaining? I do find it difficult to remain silent."

Their hands slid together above their heads, bringing their faces closer. "You may say anything you wish."

"Anything?" She emphasized the word.

Goodness. Was she flirting with him? He honestly didn't trust himself to know. "Does making people uncomfortable entertain you, Miss Morgan?"

With this, she laughed. "I suppose it could seem that way. Though I can promise you it is not intentional."

He nodded, mulling over her words. What would it be like to have a conversation without considering every nuance? Envy fingered its way into his chest.

"Your Grace," she said, interrupting his thoughts. "Am I making you uncomfortable?"

When all other thoughts fled, he knew to cling to honesty. He met her eyes, blinking once before responding. "Yes."

She tried to hide her smile, dipping her chin as she turned her face. "I see." Her chest rose with a deep breath. "I shall try harder to behave myself."

"I hope you will do no such thing," he said, his hand stiff as her waist spun beneath it.

"No?" She turned surprised eyes back to him.

"No." He didn't offer any further explanation to her. It would only make her ask questions he preferred not to answer. Such as, why ? But he could not ask Miss Morgan to mask her feelings and bury herself in a shell. It was her comfort that drew him to her—and for some reason, he didn't wish to break that spell.