Chapter 1

April 1819

The actress’s lips were… fine. Perfectly acceptable. Perfectly kissable. The right shape and size and—if Quinton dared to find out—texture for pleasure. She leaned against the door in the theater alley, beckoning him as she’d beckoned the actor she’d shared the stage with half an hour earlier. Her kohl-lined eyes said without words exactly what she wanted. His lips. On hers.

Quinton sauntered toward her, into the shadows. “Afternoon, luv. Excellent performance.”

“Hm.” She purred. “Thank you, my lord. But I’ve heard you give quite an impressive performance as well.”

He stopped just before her. Pretty enough—rouged cheeks and eyes made dark and tempting by the kohl.

“Good evening, Viscount Noble.” The words tumbled from her wicked grin. “Do the gossips speak the truth?”

“About…?”

“Certain of your appendages being as noble as your name?” Her gaze flicked downward, lingered on his fall. An invitation if he’d ever seen one.

And he had. More than he could count. He should accept it, enjoy a quick fuck after a sleepless night, and return home ready to face the demands the day would lay about his shoulders like mud-heavy bricks. He’d earned it, eschewing pleasure in the dark hours that had just passed in order to pore over plans for new cottages at Bluevale, his country seat. A rough rutting in the alley with a willing actress was all he had time to indulge in.

He’d come here for that express purpose, having received the actress’s note early yesterday evening. Mable Marcus—the most sought-after actress of the age, a celebrated beauty. And she’d invited him backstage. For a private performance after her matinee. Alluring. Talented. And she wanted him.

But when Quinton looked at her lips, his heart remained sleeping. Not a single bit of him stirred for her, most especially not his noble appendage. But he did not wish to offer her offense with his rejection. He leaned forward, trailed a finger down her round, pretty face. “Unfortunately, not this afternoon, Mrs. Marcus. I came merely to express my admiration of your talent.” He stepped away from her.

She pouted. “I have other talents, you know.” A glint of pain lingered in the drooping corners of her mouth.

He winked, stepped back again. “Of that I’ve no doubt. Seeing you up close, though, it’s clear you’re as beautiful as they say. Much too refined for a man like me.”

She blushed, her smile returning, and he left.

Left the actress unkissed and left himself cursed. Early evening wrapped navy shadows round him as he pulled the brim of his beaver hat low. He kicked through puddles as he stomped toward Mayfair.

He was cursed. Because it had been over three years since he’d kissed a woman. He’d been celibate for a year. Fucking proved no fun without kissing, apparently. A woman’s lips on his, his lips everywhere on her body—a miracle of sensation, a moment of transport.

Ruined. Because of her.

Lady Charlotte Merriweather. Sister to a duke, prim as a prude, and the last woman he’d kissed with enjoyment, with urgency and need. He’d tried his best since the kiss six years ago to forget, tried to use every other willing woman’s lips to muffle the memory. Unsuccessfully.

Hell, Barnaby had been right. A vein of softness ran through Quinton’s blood when a viscount should be, needed to be strong, hard as steel with a sleeping heart. The only way to do his duty to his title, to his ancestors, to his people, to his father, and to his future heir.

For years, he’d thought Barnaby’s views on women baseless. He’d never met a woman he’d destroy the world for. Then he’d kissed Lottie and his heart had come to wakefulness moaning her name, his lips on hers, their hearts beating together beneath that summer sky as the sun cast gold and shadows over her face. Then he’d known exactly what Barnaby meant, and he’d done everything he could to keep Lottie away, to keep himself away, his heart sleeping. He did not destroy worlds for love.

But he did find himself in need of an heir. One of those mud-heavy bricks. And since he couldn’t enjoy bed sport anymore, he might as well do it for practical purposes.

He entered his London townhome half an hour later. He needed a bath. And food. Then to speak with his estate manager about the cottages. He’d not yet made a decision on which plans to follow. Perhaps the man would have some insight.

“Quin! Is that you, darling?” His mother’s voice from down the hall.

“Coming, Mother.” He handed his greatcoat to the butler, Mr. Carter, and found his mother in her private parlor, smiling and sunny in yellow, her slightly silvered blonde hair hidden by a matching turban.

She patted the seat next to her on a too small and spindly couch. “Sit, darling. You look horrid.”

He felt horrid. He’d had too much scotch, one too many cheroots. He stank, and his mouth tasted like mud. Or worse.

“Out carousing again?” She chuckled.

If only.

“With one of your actresses?” More prodding.

“No. I told you. I’m ready to marry. No more actresses. Speaking of which, have you made a decision yet?” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “I need tea. No, coffee.”

She called a maid and requested a fresh pot, then sat by him once more. With a satisfied sigh, she reached down and scratched Princess’s ear as the hound rose on unsteady hips and came to sniff Quinton, tail wagging. “I’ve not made a decision yet. I find it rather uncomfortable to choose your wife for you.”

“I trust you.” He angled away from her to speak so she did not have to smell him and rubbed Princess’s belly with the toe of his boot. He pressed his eyes closed and massaged his temples. His mother was everything light and lovely, everything kindness and truth. “You know better than I which lady will make a good Viscountess Noble.” He scrubbed his clammy palms over his face and kept them there. Hiding in the darkness, he heard the coffee arrive, heard the tinkle of china and silver as she fixed him a cup and set it before him. He opened his eyes and reached for it.

She beamed. “I want you to be happy, Quin. And if you take no interest in the process of choosing a wife, I’m afraid you will not be. I want to know when I leave you that you’ll be well cared for—heart, soul, and body.”

He sat bolt upright. “Leave? What do you mean by that?”

With an annoyed grumble, Princess flopped to her belly and closed her eyes.

His mother cleared her throat, a tiny, almost proper sound. “Death, my dear, that is what I mean.”

He snorted. “You’re not dying any time soon.” Was she? He studied her more closely. Laugh lines around her eyes. Grooves of worry between them. Thin frame and sturdy spine. Same as always. He couldn’t lose her, too. If she was sick, he could help. In whatever way possible. “You’re not sick, are you?”

“No, I’m not. But Quinton… there are other reasons I might leave you.”

“What?” He could not think of any.

“Marriage.”

“When I marry, you will stay right here and—”

“Not you. Me.”

Well, that floored him.

She laughed. “You look like I’ve just dumped a chamber pot over your head.” She placed two fingers under his chin and snapped his mouth shut. “It’s been almost a decade since your father died. I’m tired of being alone.”

He took her hand, folded it between his, his stink be damned. He needed the solidity of her bone and skin to reassure him. Not sick. Merely starting up her life again. Considering it. He squeezed and released her, then took up his coffee. “You’ve no need to marry, Mother. I’ll always support you.” He sipped. “Hell! It’s hot.”

“Language, Quinton.” A soft warning.

Those did the most damage, soared straight to the heart. Thunk. Dead.

“I’ve no need to marry.” She picked up her own cup but did not drink. It hovered right over her mouth, her eyes clouded by steam. “This time I’ll do it for love.”

He knew well his parents had not shared much outside of duty. They’d respected one another, trusted one another, but there had been no love. His father had tried that with his first wife, found it devilish, and made corrections in his second marriage. A strong man didn’t marry for love, didn’t cloud his judgment with a soft heart. His father had learned that lesson the hard way, so Quinton would not have to suffer similarly.

“I do not think you’re missing out on much, Mother,” he said.

His mother sipped with no accident. Scalding heat suited her, it seemed. “I’m disappointed you think so. I suppose that is why you think I should be the one to choose your wife.”

“Yes. It is purely a practical matter.”

Through the steam rising from her cup, her gaze sliced into his. “I cannot do it. I will not. You are to be involved in choosing your wife. I insist. In fact, I’ve sent out invitations for a series of events I will host, and you will attend. During these events, you are to court and choose a bride.”

“No. There’s no reason for it. It’s a waste of time. Just draw a name from a jar and be done with it.”

She placed her cup delicately on the table and straightened her shoulders. “I will choose for you. But you will attend the events. I must see you with the ladies to know if you suit. Even when choosing practically, compatibility is of great importance.”

Hell. She had a point. He groaned. “Very well. I’ll attend.”

His mother clapped her hands. “Excellent. I should have known your good sense would win out. I do not enjoy hosting parties, of course. I’ve never been good at it, but I’ll not let that stop me. This is important. You are important.” She took another sip of her tea. “With Lottie’s guidance, it will be easy.”

Lottie.

A name like a death knell.

“You don’t mean Lady Charlotte M—”

“Merriweather, yes, that’s exactly who I mean. What other Lottie is there?”

None other.

“No.” Knowing she might help him find a wife sat like a rotten fish in his gut.

His mother blinked, set her cup softly on the table, and tilted her head. “No?”

“No, Lady Charlotte cannot help you.”

“I assure you, she can. You attended the ball last Season she hosted for her brother. A triumph. It quite transported me. You should have offered her a dance, being her brother’s oldest friend.”

Quinton’s father and the Duke of Clearford, Samuel’s father, had owned neighboring estates. Samuel and Quinton and every one of Samuel’s sisters had grown up tumbling about the countryside with one another. Naturally, assumptions about marriage had taken place throughout the years.

“I’m not marrying any of Samuel’s sisters,” he insisted, peering at the coffee. Had the steam receded enough yet? He picked up the cup, sipped, sighed that he could finally drink it without burning his gullet.

“I’m not suggesting you do. They’re too nice for you. At one time, I thought you and Lottie… When you were children, you were so close. Then something shifted.”

“I grew up. We were playmates when I was a boy, but a man cannot have a girl for a friend.”

“Nonsense. Doesn’t matter now, though. She likely wouldn’t have you if you begged. If you caroused less, perhaps...”

He dropped his head into his hands and propped sharp elbows into his thighs. “Again with the carousing? As my sainted mother, you’re not supposed to know about that.”

“Perhaps your mother is not quite as saintly as you think.”

He looked up, a bit horrified.

She chuckled, raised a brow. “You exist, darling. Ponder that for a moment.”

“I don’t think I will.”

Another chuckle that bled into a sigh. “No, Lottie is not meant for you. Not anymore. Nor are the others. But… you might seek out Samuel’s help as I have sought out Lottie’s. The Daily Current reports that”—she pulled a wrinkled bit of newspaper from beneath her skirts—“every single man in need of a wife finds himself, eventually, before the townhouse of the Duke of Clearford.” She pulled a pair of spectacles from a pocket and perched them on her nose to read. “Having married off one of his famously unmarriageable sisters, a woman many considered beyond the reach of the entire population of London beau—”

“Rubbish.”

“Shh. It continues. The duke is considered every bachelor’s surest route to matrimonial success. If he can teach a man how to catch one of his superior and not unreasonably discerning sisters, he can teach a man to catch any woman he chooses to chase.”

“You believe that rubbish?”

The newspaper fluttered to her lap, and his mother repocketed her spectacles. “He helped his sister wed that newspaperman last Season. They’re quite happy.”

Happy. He snorted. “Men aren’t supposed to care about happiness. Only results matter.” Like improving the cottages. “Barnaby always says—”

“Oh, Barnaby. I’ve always disliked him. Now, Quin, all you must do is appear at these events and become acquainted with the ladies. You must behave yourself, though. Unwed innocents are a different sort of creature from what you’re used to. No lewd topics of discussion, no leering, no smirking.”

“I don’t leer.”

“You do. I’ve seen it.” Her usually serene face scrunched up. “At women’s lips. It’s quite unmannerly.”

Hell. He did stare at women’s lips. Almost constantly. Trying to figure out what the hell was wrong with him. How to break the curse. “Never innocent ladies’ lips,” he insisted. Especially not that one innocent lady’s lips.

“That is the problem, you know. It’s the wrong set of lips. Entirely wrong. You look at lips you can’t marry. During these events, you may peruse the lips of ladies who are perfectly suited for marriage. Don’t sample them, of course. Not until you’ve proposed. But you might browse a bit.”

The wrong lips. Yes, perhaps therein lay the problem. He’d spent the last several years courting every pair of unacceptable lips that came his way. Those only belonging to women he could never wed. And he’d failed to banish the ghost of Lottie’s kiss. He’d never tried a proper woman before. Not since Lottie.

He chuckled. Damn, such a simple answer to the problem. He’d been attending a knife fight with his bare fists. But he had the correct weapons now. If he kissed, wed a proper lady, he’d finally be rid of Lottie and obligated to kiss his wife and his wife only. He should have thought of it sooner.

“When is the first event?” he asked.

“A week from today. Lottie assured me we could be prepared by then. Just a simple afternoon tea. Don’t you want to hear who the guests are?”

“No.” Didn’t matter as long as the woman knocked Lottie out of his head like a fist knocked a tooth from a skull—quickly and efficiently. Brutally. Speaking of Lottie. “Lady Charlotte is helping you, but will she be attending the tea? The other events?”

“Oh, yes. She’s promised, and she must. I need her. She just left, you know. If you’d slept at home, you would have, no doubt, ran into her.”

He sank slowly back down to the couch. Would he be able to focus on any lips but hers with her about? He shook his head, standing once more. “No. She can’t help you.”

His mother sighed. “Quinton.” She snapped his name into two heavy bricks. “I need her, and I’ll have her, no matter what little spat you two are embroiled in at the moment. I’ve never understood it. Always fighting, you two.”

A warm heavy weight rolled onto his foot. Princess. She looked up with sleepy, loving eyes. The same eyes she’d stared at him with ten years ago when Lottie had first handed the small ball of too-big fur over to him.

Usually, he’d allow his mother whatever she wished, no argument whatsoever, but this… he couldn’t.

“I don’t want her involved with finding me a wife.” He couldn’t have her around.

His mother stood. “Too late for that, darling. She’s already set off to Fleet Street with my invitations. She promised that brother-in-law of hers, the newspaperman, could print our invitations today. So very convenient to have such a man for a connection.” She sauntered toward the door, clearly done with their conversation. “I suggest you bathe. And visit Clearford about his Guide. I do dislike suggesting you may need help to attract a proper young lady, but…” She considered him over her shoulder, the corner of her mouth lifted in a grimace. “You may very well need help.” She disappeared into the hallway.

Help from Samuel’s Guide. It wouldn’t hurt, and he needed every weapon in his arsenal to combat the curse that had settled over him for the last six years. Six damn years. He’d not known anything to be particularly wrong at first. He’d kissed Lottie, a moment of softness in the face of her soul-shadowing grief. She’d just watched both her parents’ bodies interred at the family chapel, and she’d run into the woods. He’d followed, caught her, held her, kissed her. A nodcock idea born of desperation. She’d given him a puppy when he’d been low. He smiled fondly down at Princess. He’d had nothing to give her. But himself. Her pain had torn him in two, and he’d given into the urge to fix it, cure it. And somehow ruined himself in the process.

Because Lady Charlotte Merriweather’s kiss had cursed him. If he even dared attempt to kiss another woman, as soon as he closed his eyes, he saw Lottie, crying in the woods, shoeless and loving, in pain. He hated her a bit for that. He should be strong, impenetrable, but she uncovered his hidden weaknesses, peered beneath his skin, and found the real him—helpless.

Celibate.

Hell. He shot to his feet. He must marry. And soon.

But first, he had to get rid of her. Because just like every other goal he’d accomplished in his life, he’d make a victory of courtship. Having Lottie about while he tried to do it just might steer him off course.

He left the house without a bath, though he did collect his tin of mint leaves from his study first. His phaeton was readied in moments, and he was on his way. Toward the Duke of Clearford’s home. Where Quinton would acquire one of Samuel’s courtship guides. And where he would let Lady Charlotte Merriweather know he did not need her help.