Chapter One

Eighteen months later, February 1814 On the River Thames, London

I 've seen the elephant. Let's call a hack." Dorian Whitaker, fifth Duke of Holland, blew on his gloved fingers, hoping to bring some level of sensation back to the tips.

"How can you be such an old curmudgeon during a day like this?" Oliver flung his arms out to gesture to the mass of London's population teeming atop the frozen Thames. "There hasn't been a frost fair since we were children."

"Every part of my body is frozen."

"Not every part, surely," Oliver said with the complete lack of concern only a longtime friend could show and still be considered an ally.

"If my ballocks fall off from frostbite, I'm sending them to you in a box," Dorian grumbled.

"And I'll sell them to the highest bidder. The best bits of the Duke of Holland should fetch a fair price, don't you think?" Oliver held out a paper cone, sending spirals of steam into the frigid winter air. "Roasted chestnut?"

Dorian popped one in his mouth, welcoming the temporary warmth.

As promised, the elephant had paraded up and down the river as a testament for any doubters that the ice was thick enough to walk on. Although who could doubt it at this point he didn't know.

Booths lined the river, offering an astonishing array of wares to thousands of Londoners from every walk of life. Games of chance and more than one card table provided ample opportunity to lose yet more coin. There was even a makeshift pub serving drinks behind a plank bar they'd constructed sometime overnight.

"Is that wise?" Oliver gestured toward the pub, where patrons warmed their hands and feet around a roaring bonfire. "Building a fire atop ice seems like a risky choice to me."

Dorian wanted to say something snide about asking the elephant to test that patch of the river but held his tongue. "Then let's not linger. Just in case."

Happy cries of squealing children carried on the air along with the scents of roasting meat and a general din of conversation, haggling, and the metallic scrape of sharp skates on ice. All of it together was a little overwhelming, while also being rather delightful. If he could have the happy children, the delicious food, and the genial crowd without losing random body parts to frostbite, Dorian would be far more enthusiastic about the whole thing.

For his part, Oliver had approached the entire affair with a wide-eyed wonder he'd rarely shown toward anything. Those in their circle would describe the Earl of Southwyn as logical, a bit cold, but fair and loyal. Few were allowed to see this side of him. But then, there wasn't anyone else in Oliver's life who'd stood beside him when word of his dissolute father's death reached the school. He and Dorian had been school chums until that day. After the news, they'd empathized as boys who'd both lost their fathers, and became the next best thing to brothers.

"I'm out of nuts." Oliver shook the paper cone upside down, frowning.

Dorian wandered toward a stall filled with books, pens, and a small table of cards bearing an ink print of the frozen river. The illustration showed the giant blocks of ice that had broken free over the last week from the pier by London Bridge, then floated along the Thames, only to be caught as the river froze again. Along the riverbank, sheets of ice stood like massive walls of a quarry. It was quite the sight, and the artist captured the scene perfectly with a few deft pen strokes.

The ingenuity and speed merchants had shown in creating items to sell for the fair was impressive. Dorian paid for a card, then slipped it inside his coat before moving on. For a moment, he'd wondered if the stall was that of Martin House Books, but the man who took his money wasn't familiar.

Holding a wood stick speared with roasted meat of some kind, Oliver rejoined him. "They have interesting mementos to commemorate the event. Looking for something specific?"

"I bought a print showing the ice blocks. I'd have lingered, but the stall wasn't run by the bookshop I like."

They passed a cobbler, a game of skittles, and a woman roasting whole rabbits on a long spit. Another fire built on ice. Dorian shook his head at the sight. If people wanted to be warm, they should return to their homes, rather than risk drowning in their attempts to avoid freezing to death.

"Is this by chance the bookshop that employs a certain brunette you keep going on about?" Oliver asked.

"I do not go on about her. That is blatantly false." An urge to bat that stick of roasted meat to the ground out of petty defensiveness reared its head, but he ignored it.

Ticking off the instances as he sucked meat juices from his bare fingers, Oliver recounted, "Approximately eighteen months ago, you mentioned bumping into a woman outside the bookstore. A brunette. You estimated her to be near thirty. She'd been disheveled and travel weary but remarkable after such a journey. Your words, not mine. A year ago, you commented over port in your study that although the woman at the bookstore had smiled and been perfectly polite, you didn't think the smile was real, because it didn't reach her eyes. Nine months ago, you said that even if you hadn't known the connection between her and the Martin family, it would have been obvious to anyone who spent more than two minutes looking at her. Apparently, there is some resemblance with one of her cousins."

"She and the blonde have similar mouths. Their lips are practically identical," Dorian muttered in a half-hearted attempt at a rebuttal. "A handful of mentions is not ‘going on about someone.'" He stalked down the row of vendor stalls to get away from the conversation.

"For you, it's comparable to lurking and spying from behind bookcases." Oliver followed, looking quite pleased with himself.

"Noted." Oliver's worst trait was his tendency to be correct about nearly everything. Although Dorian had opened himself to speculation and analysis by admitting to looking for the bookshop stall. "You're a bloody nuisance. Why are we friends again?"

"Lack of options. No one else would put up with us. You're a private and deeply personal man who doesn't like to show his soft underbelly to anyone. And I, as you so eloquently put it, question everything and everyone until I become a bloody nuisance. We annoy each other to exactly the right extent."

The verbal sparring might have gone on all afternoon if he hadn't spied the blonde curly-haired cousin leaning against a vendor booth up ahead, flirting with a red-haired young man. Upon further inspection, the object of her flirtation seemed to be having a conversation with the curve of her bosom rather than her face, but she didn't seem to mind. In fact, she rather cheekily reached a finger out and tilted his chin slightly so he was looking her in the eye.

"That stall there." Dorian pointed.

"The blonde? Is that the cousin with the mouth?"

As they approached the stall, he could make out tidy displays of books on several tables and what appeared to be wood crates draped with eye-catching cloths. On the far side of the booth stood a familiar curvy form, busy pinning frost fair prints to a line of twine strung from one end of their makeshift store to the other. It didn't matter that he'd just bought a card almost exactly like them; Dorian knew he'd be purchasing another.

Several seconds, counted in heartbeats, passed as they approached and he waited for her to turn. As always, the anticipation of that first fizzle of awareness sang under his skin, catching his breath and holding it hostage until he saw her round cheeks and pointed chin. It was a heady thing, the buzz of attraction. Just like that first day when he'd briefly held her body against his outside the bookshop, desire swept through him with the potency of whisky. Unable to help himself, he'd returned to the store time and again to experience the feeling and subtly check in on Caroline. Even after she was clearly settled in and thriving in her new life, he'd searched for a sign that she wasn't as fine as she pretended to be. If she wasn't genuinely well, he didn't know what he'd do to help her circumstances. Yet, the compulsion to see her remained. And with each visit, instead of finding a woman in need of rescuing, he saw someone who wore confidence like armor. It was intriguing as hell after glimpsing her vulnerable reunion with her family.

"Damnation. Brace yourself," Oliver muttered, a split second before a man blocked Dorian's view of the bookseller.

"Well met, Holland. After weeks of trying to catch you at home, I run into you here of all places." Timothy Parker paired the comment with a wide-eyed expression innocent enough to set off alarm bells in Dorian's mind.

"Here I am, along with half of London." He kept his tone bland, clean of any emotion Timothy might twist to his advantage.

A tense silence stretched, and the false geniality on Timothy's face slipped into a familiar sneer. "You're going to make me beg for what I'm owed, aren't you?"

It wasn't a script per se, because the words were slightly different each time. But after countless reiterations over the years, Dorian knew how this conversation would progress. Timothy would play the part of victim, at the mercy of the tight-fisted ogre duke. If that didn't work, there would be insinuations and snide comments about Dorian's marriage and character. Finally Timothy would make overt threats he lacked the clout to carry out.

Over Timothy's shoulder, the brunette bookseller spun in a playful pirouette on the ice. In moments like this one, when she didn't know he was there, he caught sight of the woman she'd been on the cobblestones that first day—annoyed that he'd bumped into her, peevish over him helping pick up her papers from the ground. She'd snipped at him, then met his gaze, and he'd forgotten how to breathe. Even covered in travel dirt and so clearly exhausted it made him ache to tuck her in bed and stand guard while she slept, she'd been undeniably vibrant.

Winter sunlight hit her hair, turning it auburn and illuminating her face, just like it had that summer day. While her lips moved, saying something to her cousin he was too far away to hear, Timothy began to wheedle and whine.

"If anyone knew how you treated the family of your duchess—"

Dorian muttered a curse. Tearing his eyes from the bookstall, he stared down the last remaining family member of his late wife. Like the proverbial straw that broke the camel's back, enough was enough. Having to deal with Timothy when Dorian had been savoring a rare moment of feeling like a whole, unbroken man used any remaining patience he had with the situation. "Let's skip to the end of this farce, shall we? You've been a financial nuisance for fifteen years. My wife has been dead for five of them, and yet I'm still supporting you. Why?"

A red rush of color surged over Timothy's neck and face. "When a man marries a woman, he marries her family as well. Especially when he has funds to spare."

Dorian stepped closer, faintly aware of Oliver placing a hand on his arm in silent warning. "Juliet is gone, and it's time we all moved on. You already have everything she left behind. The jewelry, the gowns, the coach. Everything, as well as a generous allowance. The only thing left to sell is her library. Take it and leave my life for good."

"Oh, I've heard all about your plans to move on." Timothy puffed his chest in an aggressive movement anyone who had read about apes would recognize, but Dorian didn't retreat. "All of London is talking about the great Duke of Holland deigning to take another wife. The ladies wouldn't be so eager if I told them how things really ended with my cousin, would they?"

There were the threats. Once upon a time, they would have made Dorian furious, or fearful of people learning of Juliet's infidelity. Now they just made him tired in a way sleep couldn't solve.

Oliver's voice, cool and logical, cut into the conversation. "Holland might not want the scandal of shooting you on the heath and leaving your body for the scavengers, but I have no such compunctions. Watch your threats, lad."

A white line rimmed Timothy's lips as he hissed, "What the hell would I do with a library? Burn it to keep warm? I don't need fucking books; I need money. Do you have any idea the kind of men I owe? They don't accept poetry as payment."

"Books are worth quite a bit to the right person, you troglodyte," Dorian began, but Oliver cut him off.

"Holland is being more than generous by offering valuable property that by rights is his. Think it through," Oliver said.

A glance beyond Juliet's cousin showed the stall of Martin House Books. Thankfully, their conversation hadn't caught the attention of anyone in the booth, although a few passersby had slowed their pace to eavesdrop.

In the shop ahead, the blonde cousin sent the flirt on his way and returned to work. The quieter cousin was kneeling next to a crate of books as Caroline took money from a gentleman with the polite smile she reserved for patrons. The smile she gave her family was wide and unfettered.

Another difference he'd noted between the woman she'd been on the street—and occasionally glimpsed with her cousins—and who she was with customers. Not only was her smile subdued, but he suspected she chose her words carefully during the times they'd spoken in the store. A telling pause marked her conversation, as if she sorted through a list of replies in her head before choosing the most banal.

It was the contradiction that made him return again and again, not only her physical appeal. For whatever reason, she'd decided to make herself smaller and quieter, as if trying to escape notice. Yet the way she carried herself, even when silent, held an arresting confidence that countered her efforts.

Dorian forced his attention back to Timothy, who droned on.

With the shop so close, there was an obvious way to end this conversation.

"Timothy, your debtors are your problem. However, as an act of good will"—Dorian ignored the derisive snort that earned him—"I'll sell the library for you. In fact, my favorite bookshop has a stall right over there. I'll speak with them now. All proceeds will be yours to keep. In return, you and I sever all ties." Dorian held out his hand. "The alternative is, I cut you off with nothing. This is my final act of charity toward you. Do we have an agreement?"

Tense seconds passed as Dorian waited, palm extended. Finally, Timothy took it but made his real feelings known by spitting on the ice beside their shiny leather boots, before stalking toward the nearest pub.

Oliver shook his head. "I don't know how you've not let him rot in debtors' prison before now."

Because Juliet had adored her cousin. But as was the case concerning most areas in his life, Juliet's opinion mattered less and less as time passed.

"There's still time for him to land in gaol before the Season begins," Dorian said. "Would you like to wander on your own for a while? I believe I have a library to dispose of." He gestured toward the booth.

"Are you sure about this?"

"I've been considering it anyway." Dorian lowered his voice. "Think about it. No matter which dewy-eyed debutante I agree to wed, she's going to be marrying a man known for his previous love match. The poor woman will have to battle Juliet's ghost with all of society watching. The least I can do is ensure she doesn't have to live in a house surrounded by Juliet's things." He may not expect to love his next wife, but she would be the Duchess of Holland, deserving of respect and kindness.

"Perhaps we can convince your bookseller to save you from the horrors of the Season and marry you as a mission of mercy."

"Tempting as that thought may be, Mother would faint dead." Dorian laughed.

"Then you'd best not flirt with her in front of your mother. This is the first woman you've been attracted to in years."

Dorian averted his eyes from the shop and the women inside it. "I never said I was attracted to her."

Oliver made a moue of disappointment, then ruined the effect by taking a giant bite of roasted meat from the stick he still carried. "You're a terrible liar. It's a miracle you didn't single-handedly lose us the war."

"The king valued my diplomatic skills greatly, and you know it."

"Yes, well. We all know he's mad. Not the ringing endorsement you think it is, Holland."