Chapter 1

"He is handsome though, is he not?" Phoebe asked Felicity eagerly.

"If you think he is."

"That was not the question that I asked," she scowled.

"What does it matter what I think?" Felicity responded coyly, knowing how much it would frustrate her sister, while taking a little too much pleasure in the fact.

"So, he is ugly then?" Phoebe pouted. "You think him hideous."

"Did I say that?"

"You implied it!"

"I most certainly did not."

"Felicity!" she cried and threw her hands in the air. "If you think him a beast, just say it. My future husband is the homeliest man in all of England and our children will be cursed to look like gremlins and ghouls."

"Some people find gremlins to be cute," Felicity chided her sister. "Ghouls however... perhaps they will be lucky enough to have your looks instead?"

Felicity had to keep herself from laughing. The look her sister was giving her was one so wrought with agony you would think that she was being informed their father had changed his mind at the last minute and decided to instead promise her hand to a stableboy with five teeth and wart-covered skin. Sometimes it was too easy.

"I am joking, of course," Felicity chuckled and took her sister by the hand. "You know I am."

"So, he is handsome?" Phoebe asked hopefully. "You think him handsome?"

"He is the most handsome," Felicity assured her. "The kind of dashing good looks that maidens weep over and poets write about. He is a catch, Phoebe. And anyone, yourself included, should be so lucky as to have trapped him."

"He is, isn't he?" she gushed excitedly, body vibrating now. "As comely as they come. Tall. Refined. A true gentleman with eyes that I cannot wait to get lost in."

"Are you sure we're talking of the same man?"

"Felicity!"

"Another joke, sister." Felicity held her palms out as if to surrender. "Just a joke."

"Now is not the time for jokes."

"It is always the time for jokes." To that, her sister widened her eyes in warning, and Felicity softened. "Except for right now, of course. Serious commentary only." A firm nod. "And what could be more serious than your hand being promised to the man of your dreams?"

"He is though, is he not?" she sighed wistfully. "Can you believe it? How I got so lucky, I will never know."

"Oh, I know the answer to that." Felicity took her sister by the shoulders and turned her to face the full-length mirror. There, she studied her for a moment, her brows narrowed as if searching for a flaw. "Where you might think that you are the lucky one in this transaction, I can assure you that even as we speak, Lord Moore is counting his blessings because he cannot believe that fate has conspired to gift him a creature as perfect as you."

"Do you think so?" Phoebe asked sheepishly, biting her lip in a way that Felicity recognized only too well. Nerves were what she felt. A sense of trepidation because she still could not believe what was happening and was just waiting for her good fortune to unravel.

"I know so. Yes, he may be handsome and dashing and all those good things. But you, sister, are the most beautiful woman to walk God's green earth and by the time the sun sets on this day, Lord Moore will be blessing every decision he has ever made because it has led him into your arms."

Phoebe's cheeks colored. "He will be, won't he."

"I do not doubt it for a second."

Lady Felicity Hayward could not have been happier for Phoebe. Truly. Despite the jokes she made, and the fun that she poked, the elation that swelled inside of her to see her younger sister so taken with her soon-to-be betrothed made everything that she had done these past few years to see it happen prove more than worth the cost.

At twenty and six, Felicity was the eldest of three. Her younger sisters, Phoebe and Caroline, were both just twenty years old, a perfect age for marriage. Indeed, where Caroline was lucky enough to marry last Season, this Season it was Phoebe's turn. And like Caroline before her, this would be a love-match, a marriage that promised a lifetime of happiness for both husband and wife and the many children they were sure to have.

That was, of course, assuming the marriage happened.

"He will ask, will he not?" Phoebe asked suddenly as if she could read Felicity's mind. She spun back from the mirror, eyes wide with panic. "What if he changes his mind? What if he sees me today and --"

"Stop it," Felicity cut her off. "Do not entertain such foolishness."

"But what if --"

"What did I just say?" Felicity widened her eyes at her younger sister, warning her off going down that path. "Lord Moore did not agree to this courtship by accident. He was not tricked into it. He was not forced. He wants this, Phoebe. Believe me when I say so."

Phoebe took a deep and calming breath and forced herself to nod. "You are right. Of course you are." She then spun back and looked at her reflection in the mirror. "Perhaps a change in outfit? Something more... revealing?"

"Phoebe!"

"It cannot hurt!"

Technically, Phoebe's betrothal to Lord Moore wasn't yet official. Where indeed he had shown interest in her -- and more than that, Felicity knew -- there was still a matter of his signing off on it. Oh, they had flirted innocently at a ball or two, and they had walked together on a promenade, but it was always done with an air of formality that forbade any freedom and personal enjoyment in one another"s company. Hard to do when their father was in his ear the whole time.

Naturally, Lord Moore wanted to meet her in a more natural setting. To speak freely with her. To confirm once and for all that she was right for him and him for her.

That was what today was about, the reason Phoebe was a bundle of nerves. Lord Moore had invited Phoebe, her father, and Felicity to his manor for a very casual luncheon, by the end of which, if all went well, the two would be engaged and their happily ever after would begin in earnest.

"Stop being silly," Felicity said dismissively. "And stop making yourself nervous."

"Can you blame me?"

"All you need to worry about is being yourself. Lord Moore is a gentleman and today is nothing more than a formality." She smiled for Phoebe who tried to return it but bit nervously into her lip all the same. "And if you do feel yourself getting flustered today, remember that father and I will be there if you need it. Which you won't."

"I am just grateful that for once, I won't have to worry about half the ton watching us," Phoebe agreed. "He promised it will only be himself today – he did promise it, didn't he?"

Felicity chuckled. "Yes, of course. I was sure to request that we keep things small. None of his family or friends."

"His family I can handle. His friends, however,..." She curled her lip.

Felicity frowned. "Who are you referring to?"

Her sister looked at her flatly. "You know who. Lord Moore's reputation is beyond question, but the company that he keeps, well, it leaves something to be desired."

Still, Felicity wasn't sure what her sister meant. "I have met many of his friends. They all seemed fine to me."

"Really?" She cocked an eyebrow at Felicity. "Even His Grace? Or as he is known, the Wild Duke." She rolled her eyes.

"Oh..." Felicity's expression fell flat. "Him."

The Wild Duke... or His Grace, the Duke of Walford as he preferred to be called. He was Lord Moore's best friend, word being that they had known one another their entire lives. A strange circumstance, seeing as the two men could not be more different. The fact that Felicity had never met the man was proof enough that His Grace didn't belong in the same social circles. When Lord Moore was attending balls and galas, His Grace was drinking at taverns and bedding not-so-innocent barmaids. And when Lord Moore was visiting the theatre, His Grace was holed up in gambling rings, betting obscene amounts of money with characters he had no business spending time with. Not a very nice man, by all accounts.

"I wouldn't worry about him," Felicity assured her sister.

"I will have to meet him one of these days," Phoebe sighed. "Urgh, from what I have heard, he's as likely to talk Lord Moore out of marriage than into it. What if he does just that? What if he tells him not to --"

"Phoebe." Felicity took her sister and again made her face the mirror. "We are not here to speak of His Grace. We are not here to worry with things that will not happen. We are here to make sure that you look as stunningly beautiful as possible so that when Lord Moore sees you today, he will trip over himself as he begs father to agree to the betrothal. And that is all."

"He will trip, won't he?" she grinned.

"I fully expect him to fall flat on his face," Felicity joked to which her sister broke into a fit of giggles.

Today was about Phoebe, her future, one that promised to be as filled with bliss as could be hoped for. And Felicity, ever the good sister, would be there to make sure it was so. There would be no talk of wicked dukes or last-minute changes of mind. Felicity had worked too hard and sacrificed too much for that to happen.

The day was young, but by the time the sun set, all would be well in the Drowshire Manor. Of that, she had no doubt.

* * *

"Read it again," Charles, Duke of Walford, growled as he took a sip of brandy. Too early to be drinking, but times such as this called for it.

"Your Grace, I do not think it necessary to rehash --"

"Read it again!" Charles barked at his manservant, Mr. Whiting.

Mr. Whiting sighed his assent and unfolded the piece of parchment in his hands. He glanced at it, grimaced at the words, and then looked to Charles once more as if hoping he might change his mind. But there would be no changing of his mind, and Charles glared at the man, letting him know as such.

"Your Grace," Mr. Whiting began solemnly. "First of all, I want to thank you for considering myself in this venture of yours. The fact that my name came into contention at all is an honor unto itself and it shall not be forgotten. However..." Mr. Whiting sucked through his teeth. "However, at this current time, I am afraid that I am left with no choice but to deny your offer. Where it is indeed a sound one, and where, as you point out, there is infinite chance for future expansion and growth, the simple fact is that my current situation cannot allow for me to go into business with you. As you may know, I am currently courting Lady Langston, a woman whose father is of a most reputable reputation and if he was to learn of this venture, that I was associated with – Your Grace." Mr. Whiting stopped short. "Is there really any need to finish? You know what it says?"

Charles was sitting on a single couch facing the fire. Mr. Whiting stood over his shoulder, unable to see the rueful expression that Charles wore, but able to sense it, nonetheless. And where the flames in the hearth may have been roaring, it was the heat coming off Charles that warmed the room to boiling point.

"Finish it, Mr. Whiting." He took a sip of his brandy. "Let me hear what that pompous prick has to say."

Mr. Whiting swallowed. "If he was to learn of this venture, that I was associated with your name, I am afraid that my own reputation may come into question. Surely, you understand? What is more, the very fact that you sought me out when you have countless names to draw upon may suggest an attempt to take advantage of one who you would hold clear sway over, both financially and socially. It is not personal, Your Grace, but as of now I have no choice but to deny you. Please do not read this as a judgement of your character for, unlike many men that I know, I hold you in the highest regard. Sincerely, Lord Fording."

"No post-script?" Charles asked.

"None, Your Grace."

"Interesting. I thought he might have used it to question my manhood." Another sip of his brandy. "Why not at this point? The knife is already in, so might as well twist it."

"Perhaps he ran out of ink?"

Charles couldn't help but chuckle at that. He had known Mr. Whiting for his entire life, seeing as the elderly manservant had worked for his father long before Charles was even born. And besides, as angry as Charles was at the letter and furious! He was also none too surprised.

"Burn it," Charles sighed as he took a final sip of his brandy.

"Shall I fashion a response?" Mr. Whiting walked to the hearth and tossed the letter into the flames.

"I wouldn't want to waste the parchment," Charles sighed as he forced himself to stand. His first thought was to fetch himself another glass of brandy, but it was far too early for that, and he didn't wish to give credence to the implications made about him in the letter.

"I dare say Lord Fording won't be expecting one."

"He will be praying that I don't send one, is what," Charles chuckled. "These upstart, arrogant lordlings..." He waved his hand dismissively at the burning letter. "They are the picture of aristocratic excellence and servility when they are forced to speak with me face to face. But give them some ink, a piece of parchment, and a manor to hide away in, and they turn into vipers."

"Not vipers, Your Grace," Lord Whiting corrected. "Vipers, when cornered, will lash out and strike – defend themselves, as it is. These men are more akin to rats. Brave in the dark but cowardly once the light shines on them."

Charles snorted as he stepped around the couch and made for the exit. "Very good point. I am better off without them."

"I could not agree more."

"Let them come to me."

"Exactly, Your Grace."

"And when they do, I will extend my hand and forgive them for their transgressions because unlike them, I have integrity."

"More than any man I know."

"And then we shall see what they say."

"Only the best things, I would imagine."

Reaching the door, Charles turned back and scoffed at his manservant. It was all bluster, he knew. A silly conversation because, in times like this, there was nothing left to do. Despite his title of Duke and his so-called ‘esteem' in the ton, Charles could not imagine a scenario where one of his contemporaries might approach him earnestly, wanting to be associated with him because they thought him of worthy character and a name that they wished to stand beside. Not socially. Not in business. Not even in passing, as he had known men to literally cross the street rather than risk being seen with him for the smear it might leave on their name.

It shouldn't have been this way. As a duke, Charles shouldn't have had to beg men like Lord Fording, a lowly baron of all things, to invest in a business idea of his – they should have been begging him for the chance! But as had been the case in Charles' life, nothing was as easy as it should be.

"I'm going out," Charles suddenly decided as he reached the doorway.

"It's noon!" Mr. Whiting cried after him.

"Not out, out. I am not going to get drunk," Charles chastised. "Do not believe all the rumors you hear of me."

"May I ask where then?"

"To see Harry. I wish to complain to somebody and you, Mr. Whiting, simply will not do."

"Lord Moore?" Mr. Whiting chased after Charles. "But Your Grace, he is busy today, remember?"

About to walk through the doorway, Charles turned back. "He is?"

"Yes, he is entertaining Lord Drowshire and his daughters – the betrothal, if you remember?"

"Oh yes..." Charles pushed his lips together with frustration. He needed someone to speak with, to vent to. And Harry, his only true friend, was a perfect candidate. "It is only noon, yes?"

"An hour after."

"Perfect. I doubt Harry will have Lord Drowshire over before evening. Likely, he means to sup with them tonight."

"Are you certain, Your Grace?"

Charles shrugged. "I suppose I will find out won't I." He grinned at Mr. Whiting. "And besides, if I am wrong... this will give me a chance to talk Harry out of the wedding."

"Your Grace!"

"Joking, Mr. Whiting. Just joking. You know how happy I am for Harry – the way he speaks of his bride-to-be, I don't think God himself could change the man's mind." He smiled at the thought, truly glad that his best friend had found happiness. Charles knew he would never experience such a thing, so why not his best friend?

It was thirty minutes later when he arrived at the Moore Estate, certain that he wouldn't be interrupting. Despite his jokes, he didn't much fancy intruding on his friend and his engagement plans. And Charles, knowing his own reputation, knew that his presence would only hurt his friend's chances, not help them.

Alas, no sooner had Charles pulled his horse onto the main drive and started toward the front of the manor did a carriage appear behind him. And where Charles considered simply turning about and leaving, he spied Harry walking from inside and waving him down. What was more, he looked pleased at the sight of Charles' unexpected visit rather than annoyed.

"Well, this is a pleasant surprise!" Harry called as Charles trotted toward him.

"And an unwelcome one, I am sure."

"Nonsense!" Harry's mood was elated, a sign that he was excited for this possible betrothal. "My best friend is always welcome."

Charles glanced over his shoulder as the carriage neared. "I confess, I thought you would be meeting with Lord Drowshire closer to the evening. I can leave, if you like?"

"Oh, you're here now." He took the horse by the reins as if to stop Charles from galloping off. "Besides, seeing as you are here, my thoughts are that I could use you."

"Use me how?"

Harry grimaced. "A distraction, Charles. It is not just Lord Drowshire and my soon-to-be who is attending, but the eldest daughter, Lady Felicity Hayward. A lovely woman, to be sure, but I would appreciate a chance to get to speak with Lady Phoebe on her own today, if you catch my meaning?"

"You mentioned the word distraction?" Charles sighed.

Harry grinned. "That's the spirit!"

Charles groaned. The last thing he wished to do today was entertain a young lady of the ton. He had met enough to last him a lifetime already, and where few he found interesting and fewer he found worth meeting, most of them thought less than good things about him and weren't afraid to show it. Without knowing anything about this Lady Felicity Hayward, Charles was already predicting a rather hostile reception.

If it was anyone else who asked, he would have said no. But there were few people in this world he loved as he did Harry, and for him alone, Charles would do just about anything. So, he decided to stay.

It was a decision made all the more intriguing when he caught his first sight of Lady Felicity Hayward. She was the first to exit the carriage, stepping into the doorway and then the light in a way that almost suggested she knew Charles would be watching. Tall and slim, her brown hair matched her porcelain skin perfectly, while her features were sharp and her green eyes big and bright and fierce... more so when they landed upon Charles.

She was, in a word, stunning. Her green dress caught in the wind, blowing about her legs, tightening against her body, showing off a surprisingly curvaceous frame for one so slim. And Charles, not thinking, licked his lips at the sight, which she saw him doing, and glared her disapproval, holding that glare as she climbed down.

As to Charles? He could not help but grin. Yes, a most hostile reception indeed. But then again, it was nothing more than Charles was used to.