CHAPTER ONE

Northumberland, England

Wednesday, September 8, 1824

I'm in love with my best friend's betrothed… well, as in love as a rake like me can be.

Drake Caster, Viscount Stone, tossed back the last of his champagne after privately toasting the happy couple. He could do nothing less as he watched his best friend, Elijah Farrow, smile at his soon-to-be-bride, the pretty Miss Philomena Sharpe. Farrow had orchestrated this entire two-week-long house party in honor of the young woman, intending to officially announce their engagement to the ton during the final night's grand ball.

His gaze slowly perused the lithe form of Miss Sharpe as the couple chatted with guests near the veranda opening—a late summer breeze attempting to wash away the stench of overheated bodies in the crowded ballroom—before returning to Farrow in chagrin. Drake had never been tempted to pursue a woman one of his friends had claimed interest in, and he'd certainly never interfered in their engagements or marriages. He may be the son of the King of Corruption , but there were some boundaries even Drake refused to cross, which included bedding the wives, or impending wives, of his comrades.

Then why the hell am I still fixated on Farrow's woman?

"Careful… Stare much longer, and you're liable to turn green," a voice warned, interrupting the self-flagellation he found himself mired in.

Spinning on his heel, Drake spied a bespectacled woman smirking behind a book—as if her current position seated along the wall was a perfectly logical place to read.

"As in green with envy." Her chin jutted toward Farrow. Drake didn't recognize the cheeky chit, and would have ignored her unwelcome advice, except the title of the tome in her hand caught his attention.

"Are you reading Chaucer at a ball?"

"Why? Jealous?" She winked behind her spectacles, stunning him into silence.

Who was this brazen woman to sit like a wallflower on the edges of the room—reading Chaucer of all things—only to wink at him like a common doxy?

It astounded him, and there wasn't much that surprised him anymore. As Viscount Stone, firstborn son of Lord Southtree—or more commonly known as the King of Corruption due to his love of vice—Drake had seen his fair share of bold women, ambitious men, and the debauchery that ensued when one met the other.

Yet he'd never met a woman like this: a proper lady with the nerve of a saucy minx. Even her slightly overgrown coiffure à la Titus , years out of fashion, spoke of her peculiarity. Everyone of note had left the short style behind in favor of long tresses suitable for complicated arrangements, but not this woman. Her shiny chestnut curls bounced above her shoulders, while a ribbon nestled around her head as the lone adornment.

"If not, you should be," she continued, shaking him out of his perusal. "Chaucer is far preferable than our current circumstances. Besides, the tragic tale of Troilus and Criseyde befits your situation, since it appears you're quite taken with the groom's betrothed. Like our hero, you've unfortunately been struck by an irreconcilable desire for a wholly inappropriate woman—Miss Philomena Sharpe."

"I haven't the slightest notion where you got that idea." Denial was his only recourse. He couldn't admit to lusting after his best friend's fiancée.

She hummed in her throat before flipping a page of the book. "Of course, my lord. You were only gaping at Miss Sharpe in friendly admiration."

"I was not gaping," he growled, incensed by the very thought. Drake didn't gape or gawk or otherwise pine after women. He appreciated Miss Sharpe's beauty and genteel manner, and with the happy marriage of his younger brother Simon so recently in his mind, it was natural for him to become infatuated with a lady of Miss Sharpe's demeanor. Due to his relationship with Farrow, he'd spent a considerable amount of time with the girl this Season, and it hadn't been as intolerable as previous interactions with fresh-faced debutantes.

It made Drake wonder if it was time to settle down and start working on heirs to carry on the Southtree title upon his and his father's demise.

Though it was damn inconvenient for his mind to focus on Farrow's bride rather than another unattached lady. London swelled with a number of eligible women, and while his reputation left much to be desired, his noble title and the money in his coffers tended to overshadow a past riddled with vice.

A past and present.

He hadn't completely abandoned who he was, after all…