Prologue

London, summer 1812

T he next villain she wrote would be a vicar. Perhaps a vampiric vicar, who survived by sucking the blood of sheep while the villagers slept, unaware of the danger they fostered in their midst. Although, now that she considered it, vampires might be more loyal to their offspring than her vicar father.

Caroline Danvers hugged the oilskin folio containing all her worldly goods tighter to her chest and pivoted to avoid the circle of men blocking the pavement. Or more accurately, dodged their hands and cries of "Pretty bird, where you off to so fast?"

There'd been worse on the road from Staffordshire to London. A few men drinking away their wages outside a pub in the middle of the day were no more annoying than a gnat. On her third day of travel, she'd traded her pewter inkpot for a small blade, which she tucked in her walking boot. If one of those men tried to do more than call to her, they'd be missing a finger, and she wouldn't feel bad about it.

So much could change in such a short time. Today she was ready to pull a knife. Not long ago, she'd been the spinster daughter of a vicar, making her biweekly visit to pick up the post for the perpetually ailing (and entirely imaginary) widow Mrs. Delia Wallace.

Traveling merchants and myriad other people used bookstores and lending libraries to hold their mail until the next time they passed through the area. When she'd begun writing erotic novels a few years ago under the nom de plume of Blanche Clementine, she'd gone to a nearby town and established an account under Mrs. Wallace's name to handle correspondence with her publisher.

The day had been sunny and warm, like this one. Except, instead of the scents of roasting meat pies, sweat, and waste, she'd breathed in fresh country air and the honeysuckle growing over the cottage. She'd gathered her latest manuscript in its oilskin folio, along with the usual writing tools in anticipation of stealing time to work while she enjoyed an afternoon of freedom with the pony cart. When the bookshop had a small display of Blanche Clementine novels in the window and the mail had included royalties, she'd thought the day couldn't get any better.

Until she returned to the vicarage to find her father standing over the open metal lockbox that held her savings, contracts, and letters from her publisher.

The money in her pocket was enough to pay for meals and cots in stables along the road to London. She'd hailed passing farmers' carts to give her poor feet a rest as the miles, then days passed. Parting with her coins one by one, she'd clung tighter to the half-finished manuscript—all she'd been able to take with her.

If she were more delicate in nature, and of a less vengeful bent, she'd be able to cry. That's what one of her heroines would do. Except, she was an ugly crier, and any excess water in her body was otherwise occupied by seeping from her pores, not her eyes.

London in the summer was like wandering through hell's furnace with thousands of other people who appeared to be having a better day than she was.

Having a better day than a woman who'd been thrown from her home wouldn't be hard, all things considered.

Rounding a corner, Caro nearly sagged with relief when a sign came into view. Carved wood swung from an iron post mounted to the front of a stone building with multipaned windows of wavy glass.

Martin House Books.

Finally. Just a few yards away.

Without conscious thought, her weary feet slowed. Mercy, it had been a journey to get here, and part of her didn't fully believe she'd arrived safe and whole. The travel had seemed to take forever. Yet in that next instant, with her goal so close she could almost touch it, time stretched until a second could have been a year or a lifetime, rather than a blink.

A hard body connected with her back. Instinctively, Caro stuck out her arms to stop her fall, which sent her precious manuscript tumbling to the ground. The oilskin landed with the center flap open, and the top pages fluttered in the breeze of passing feet. Fully expecting to fall, she arched to cover the papers with her body.

Except, hard cobblestones didn't hit her palms. Her knees didn't connect with stone. Nothing hurt. It took a second to realize she hung suspended, pulled against the firm body of whoever had bumped into her. He'd wrapped an arm around her waist, and a rough voice said in posh tones, "Terribly sorry, miss. No harm done, I hope."

He set her on her feet, and Caro bent to gather the pages of her book. Large hands dusted with gold hair appeared in her peripheral vision, plucking a piece of paper from the ground and tucking it into the oilskin folio.

"Is that all of it?" he asked, and she had to swallow around a lump in her throat.

So close to her destination, and she'd almost lost all she had left in the world. "Yes. Thank you for tidying the mess you made." The words were thick with accusation and emotion. Frustration, anger, sadness, exhaustion, but not quite tears—more proof she wasn't the kind of heroine she wrote about.

He wrapped the leather thong around the bundle and held it out to her with one hand, while steadying her with his other arm as they rose. "Please accept my deepest apologies."

Accepting the folio, she clutched her precious manuscript to her chest where it belonged. Caro finally looked up.

He had the bluest eyes she'd ever seen. Clear blue, like the sky in Staffordshire, rimmed in straight dark lashes, lit with obvious interest as he took her in. A firm chin under a serious, concerned mouth. At least he appeared genuinely apologetic, which soothed her ire.

After all, he'd apologized prettily and been kind enough to make sure she was unharmed after literally knocking her off her feet. The budding smile didn't have a chance to bloom before she took in the rest of him.

Pristine white cravat, starched collar, dark coat cut to perfection over his shoulders. The clothing he wore was of the finest quality. Combined with the elegant pattern of speech, he was the walking, talking human equivalent of a heavy purse. Money. She'd bet her last farthing there was a title in front of his name, and he wooed the kind of women who drank orgeat on purpose.

Women who wouldn't dream of traveling alone out of desperation. Women who would faint dead away at the thought of appearing on the street in all their travel dirt as she currently was.

"Thanks to your quick reflexes, I'm unharmed. Thank you." Caro stepped away from his clean bergamot scent, and the bustling city street snapped back into focus around her.

"May I make it up to you? Perhaps help you get to wherever you're going?"

"That's kind but unnecessary. I've arrived." The smile she'd held back slipped free as she gestured toward the bookshop sign.

"I was heading there myself. Here, if I may." He held open the shop's door.

A bell overhead tinkled in welcome as they entered. Honey-hued wood, rich with lemon oil, gleamed everywhere. Plank floors squeaked under their feet as they approached a long wood counter. Rows of bookcases held more books than Caro had ever seen in one place, and tables scattered about the sales floor displayed artful piles of specific titles and writing supplies.

It was beautiful. Heaven and, hopefully, a haven.

"Caro? Caro, oh my God—what are you doing here?" Blonde curls and a wide dimpled grin registered an instant before her cousin, Constance, wrapped her in a warm hug.

Days of travel and worry, the fatigue, the pain of her father's accusations and actions, the handsome stranger on the street—it all disappeared in a flood of relief. "I can't believe I made it."

Her cousin pulled back, her smile disappearing as quickly as it had come. "Did you ride the mail? Hire a coach?" Connie's eyes widened when Caro shook her head.

Their other cousin, Hattie, hurried from a doorway behind the counter. "Caroline! What a wonderful surprise. How did you get here?"

"I walked. Sometimes rode in a cart." Caro cleared her throat, painfully aware of the man standing behind her. Surely his polished perfection only served to make her scruffy appearance and desperate straits stand out in stark relief.

Constance gripped Caro's arms and inspected her as if looking for damage. "You walked? From Staffordshire. Are you mad? " Caro knew the exact moment her cousin noticed the man she'd entered with because Connie sent him a distracted smile. "Pardon the family drama, Your Grace. Our cousin has taken us by surprise."

Your Grace. Sweet mercy, he's a duke. Well, she'd been correct in her evaluation, hadn't she? Caro turned to give him a tight-lipped smile. "Thank you for your help, Your Grace."

"It was the least I could do," he said simply.

Now she could push his presence from her mind entirely. Even if his curious gaze lingered like a caress on the side of her face, Caro would likely never see him again. And that was as it should be.

Perhaps it was knowing she'd achieved some modicum of safety that allowed each ache and pain to make itself known. She licked her lips, desperately wishing for something to drink. As if reading her mind, Hattie ducked back into the room she'd just come from, and returned within moments with a teacup. "Here, luv. You must be parched."

"I'd think so, after walking halfway across the country on a whim." Constance shook her head.

"I had no choice." Caro sipped and found the tea to be tepid. Hattie must have sacrificed the cup she'd already prepared for herself. In a few gulps, she emptied the cup as she clutched the package closer with one hand. "I didn't have anywhere else to go."

Like mirror images, each woman pressed her lips into a line and drew in a deep breath as they heard everything she didn't say. They knew her father, after all, and could fill in the missing information.

Hattie spoke first. "Let's get you upstairs to Uncle Owen and Aunt Mary."

Caro raised a brow and wiggled the folio, asking a silent question. Would they throw her out as well when they learned of her writing?

Somehow, Hattie understood. "They'll be thrilled you're here. Uncle Owen was just saying he needed to hire someone to handle the account books. Besides, you're family. We take care of family."

Right. They took care of family. Her father often said the same thing but in a way that sounded like the task was a burden, rather than a privilege. Caroline let another layer of tension leach from her shoulders.

Constance turned toward the man—the duke—who'd stood silently watching. "Are you here for the books you ordered? I'll have them wrapped for you in one moment. Our apologies for the wait, Your Grace."

"No apologies needed. I'm happy your cousin is safe and sound." Like the duke he was, he sent Caro a shallow bow before taking a seat by the window to wait.

As Hattie led her upstairs to the family's living quarters, Caro didn't look back.

The next book's villain might be a vicar, but the next heroine she wrote would have two supporting characters who would carry her to her happiness.

"Is she in there?"

"Well, I can't exactly see in the dark, now, can I? I'm not a bloody fruit bat. Caro, are you in here?"

"I could have yelled, Constance. I'm trying to be respectful. She's had an awful time of it; she doesn't need us hollering like fishwives, does she? Especially if she's crying in the dark."

The sound of her cousins bickering in the doorway washed over Caro, bringing a smile. "I'm here. And I'm still not crying." Caro sat up in bed, flinging the lightweight linen covers down to her waist. "A proper sort of woman would be weeping after all this, wouldn't she?" As she knit her fingers together in her lap, she worried at her lip. "Father called me unnatural. Do you think he might have been right—about part of it, anyway?"

Someone lit a candle, and Caro blinked against the tiny flare of light. While Constance tended the flame, Hattie crossed to the bed and nudged her arm. "There's nothing unnatural about you. Scoot over, darling. There's a girl. You're talented and brave, and I won't hear another word to the contrary." Hattie spoke with the same tone one would use with a distressed child.

"I still can't believe your father threw you out. What kind of monster would do such a thing?" Constance hung her apron on a hook behind the door, then stripped out of her gown and petticoat. They were wearing the barest layer of clothes in deference to the summer heat. The room was nearly stifling after a long day of sun and soot in the great city of London. Despite the late hour, the calls of merchants and neighbors on the street below entered the room along with a welcome evening breeze.

Caro eased back onto her pillow. Growing accustomed to the noise and bustle of so many people living in such a small area would be impossible, yet Caro would have to do it.

"He thinks having a successful author for a daughter is so disgusting." Connie let loose a dark laugh. "What I'd give to meet him in an alleyway and show him the error of his ways."

A lifetime of defending her father had Caro speaking before she thought it through. "Not just an author. An erotic-novel author. His sense of right and wrong is rigid. The people in the village expect their vicar to be perfect, and by extension, me too."

Constance settled the candle into its holder on the bedside table and made a shooing motion with her hands.

"Your father should be horsewhipped," Hattie said, crawling over Caro to claim the space by the wall. "I refuse to refer to that man as my uncle from this day forward. He's no family of mine."

The bed dipped as Constance climbed in. "Bloody vicar. I hope he falls in love with a cow and dies of the pox. But not before his willy falls off."

"Good God, what have you been reading to give you such ideas? Does Uncle Owen know what his daughter is pulling off the shelves and filling her mind with?" Hattie asked, jerking her head off the pillow beside Caro's.

"My father encourages us to read, and I'll read whatever I like, thank you. Don't think I haven't noticed the books you hide under the counter at the shop, Hattie MacCrae. Check your chemise—your hypocrisy is showing."

"Fair enough," Hattie grumbled.

Constance wrapped her arms across Caro and rested her hands on Hattie, linking the three of them together.

Yes, she was safe here. Caro drew in a deep breath, then paused. "Connie, why do you smell like men's cologne? Is that… sandalwood?"

"I swiped it from James. He thinks it's romantic that I want to wear his scent."

"James is the beau of the week," Hattie explained without prompting. "Poor fool doesn't realize she's trying to see if she can stand smelling him for longer than an evening."

Caro glanced between them. "Beau of the week? I thought James was last month."

"This is the third James. Or maybe fourth. I don't know. I've lost count," Hattie said around a yawn.

"Ah, that makes sense, then. I thought I'd somehow missed something since our last letter." She relaxed deeper into the mattress. "Have you decided, Connie? About the cologne?"

Constance answered with a dramatic full-body shudder. "Too much musk. I think he's overcompensating. Doesn't bode well for the relationship when their cologne screams I'm a man so aggressively. I'll return the bottle and break things off with him tomorrow."

"Add another name to the rejection list. At this rate, you'll either be an old maid or have to wander Mayfair to catch some swell's eye. You've run through all the men in the rest of the city." Another yawn distorted Hattie's teasing.

"Surely not all the men." If Constance was worried or insulted, she didn't sound like it. As she burrowed under the thin blanket, it rose and tickled Caro's nose.

Sharing a bed would take some getting used to as well.

Constance's burrowing seemed to be her way of releasing the rest of her energy, because she now sounded as tired as Hattie. "It has been quite the day, hasn't it? Tomorrow, we all start fresh. I'll end things with James, Hattie will make a plan to publicly ruin your father and get your savings back, and you can tell us about the new book you're writing."

"I look forward to ruining him," Hattie whispered. "It will be so satisfying."

"I don't know how we can get my savings back, short of marching into the house and stealing it ourselves." A pang of sadness cut through the feeling of safety Caro had been enjoying. "There was almost enough. I was going to buy a cottage closer to London, so I could see you two more often, but far enough out of the city to have peace and quiet. I'd garden and write more Blanche Clementine novels, and no one would ever expect me to be perfect again. It was going to be wonderful."

"You can still do all that, luv," Constance said. "Even if we don't get your money, you'll eventually save enough again. We've sold quite a few copies of your books, and that's without our customers knowing of our connection to the author."

Caro tensed. "We can't tell anyone. I'll be a scandal and drive away your more conservative patrons. It would kill me to cause problems for you all, especially after your kindness today. Uncle Owen and Aunt Mary didn't even hesitate when I showed up on your doorstep. Promise you won't say a word outside the family, Connie."

"Relax. We've managed to hold our tongues this long, haven't we? No one needs to know your secret identity unless you choose to tell them."

Gradually, one breath at a time, Caro relaxed once more. "All right. Maybe it will all turn out in the end… eventually."

"Of course. Thankfully, my bed is big enough for all of us. Now that Betsy's married, there's room. I'll clear out her old shelves and drawers for you."

"As long as you don't kick like Betsy did, this will work out perfectly," Hattie said, exhaustion weighing heavy in her voice.

Connie kissed Caro's cheek. "Good night, luv. You're not alone anymore. You have us, and now you have Martin House Books too."