Chapter 2

CHAPTER 2

Once, and only once, Henry had kissed a tavern maid in London after consuming one too many clarets. He hadn't stepped foot in a tavern since, and more importantly, he hadn't kissed another woman. It wasn't as if the opportunity didn't present itself, though it hadn't often. It was more the fact that Henry didn't concern himself with love.

Or women.

He hadn't a clue what to do with women.

They were such confusing creatures. They would flirt and smile, and he didn't know what to say next. And as for kissing, he was worried he was doing it wrong. And he preferred to be great at whatever he spent his time on.

No, there was a reason he preferred his law texts every evening—he was confident that his studying them would bring about a positive outcome. The law was black and white, and much like the way London society operated, women were gray.

And here he was, completely fascinated with the gorgeous stranger opposite him.

He was so far out of his depths, but when she smiled, he was sure he never wished to find land again.

She stood up and tugged at the knotted cravat around her wrist, frowning. "I apologize for the inconvenience. If you give me your address, I'll make sure this is cleaned and returned to you."

"No names, no addresses. I appreciate the thought, though."

He removed her handkerchief from his wound and studied the bloody piece of embroidered linen. "I suspect you would like this back, however?"

She pursed her lips and swung her hips. Her emerald dress swished to the side like a church bell. "Well, I wouldn't be against it, no."

Henry slowly rose to his feet, groaning as the blood rushed to his head. She reached out, touching his arms with her fingertips, and the effect was all too dangerous. She stood almost eye to eye with him, only needing to tilt her head slightly to meet his heated stare. He must have hit his head harder than he originally thought because, as she swayed closer, all he could think about was what it would feel like if her lips pressed against his.

One kiss, that was all.

"Perhaps you should return to your friends and find a surgeon?"

That would be wise. Henry couldn't explain it, however, but he didn't wish to be parted from her.

"Hmm."

"You don't wish to?"

He shook his head, studying her face. Even half-hidden behind her gold mask, he was positive the most beautiful, intriguing, and confounding woman had run into him.

"Do you like to eat…" He searched his brain for the correct word. "Dinner?"

She laughed, glancing over her shoulder before turning back to him. "Depending on who's cooking it. Yes, I suppose I do."

He attempted to stuff his hands into his pockets, only to remember this jacket didn't have any.

"That's good. I do too…"

The woman leaned forward and scrunched her nose. "Are you sure we cannot know one another's names?" She bounced back, standing tall. "I would like to know very much."

"If we are meant to know, then we will find out."

How did he think of this drivel?

"That's surprisingly romantic of you."

The cravat was still tied around her wrist, but he checked his collar, nonetheless, certain it was tied too tight around his throat. Henry Davies, a romantic?

"No, no, no. I wouldn't say that."

She spun around, backing up a few steps toward the party. "It's past dinner, but would you like to go for a walk? Maybe a tavern? There's one nearby."

He preferred this small sliver of heaven in a cluster of sycamore trees. The lantern lights hanging by the paths illuminated the space around them. Here, they were free to talk. Here, they were free from the judgment of others. Once they removed themselves, London would swirl around and tear them apart.

And he had wished to leave only moments earlier—until he met her.

"Dance with me," he said in a burst of panic. He hated to dance and had made it his life's mission to avoid such merriment.

She barked out a surprised laugh. "You most definitely need a surgeon."

"Why? Do you not like to dance?"

"Oh, I like dancing fine enough. But I'm almost certain you don't like dancing."

He grinned, clasping his hands behind him. "Normally, you would be correct."

"What's different then?"

You.

"There is no one here to see."

"You prefer to dance when no one is watching? What is the fun of that? Oh, you don't seem to be the type to enjoy fun."

"I think you might be teasing me, but you are correct. Dancing, parties, I avoid them whenever possible."

"I am most definitely teasing you." She licked her full lips in a slow, sensual sweep of her tongue. "What brought you here this evening?"

"My colleague's birthday. I agreed to stay only for an hour."

"Remind me to never invite you to one of my birthday celebrations."

"I am still here, am I not?"

"I knocked you over, and you bashed your head against a rock. I believe you might be here under duress."

His cheeks hurt from the stupid grin spread across his face. It pushed the troublesome mask up against his eyelids, and he wished to remove the blasted thing. But that would do no good. Was it supposed to hurt when you smiled?

"Will you dance with me, lady mischief, or shall I stagger out of these woods alone, and a little worse for the wear?"

The stranger peered up toward the sky, revealing the long line of her neck. Henry wondered for a moment how soft her skin would be there, and if she would shiver if he trailed kisses from the hollow of her throat to her mouth. These questions were so strange for him to consider. He didn't quite understand this madness, but he knew he would die a little if she refused his invitation to dance. And he also knew that until this very moment, he despised dancing more than taxes or mushy peas.

She narrowed her eyes behind her mask and lifted her nose, studying him before holding her hand out for him to grasp.

His heart, which had for thirty-one years worked well up until this night, tripped a beat. Enough for him to catch his breath as his hand reached out for hers, and her gloved hand slipped into his palm. And then he tugged, erasing the distance between them there in the dark circle of sycamore trees.

Their own private space as the rest of London carried on with their raucous masquerade.

"I don't believe I have danced in the middle of a forest before."

Henry had only danced in precisely one ballroom, only one time, as a favor to a friend whose younger sister was a sworn wallflower. Perhaps it had been his friend's attempt at matchmaking. Either way, it didn't stick, and he and his dance partner had parted ways amicably, both happier to be by themselves.

But this stranger?

They barely knew one another, and he was too much of a gentleman to pull her close and draw the back of his hand against her cheek as he wished. To feel the softness of her skin. And how her lips would feel against his…

He wished to know her depths. He craved to know more than this masked version of her, running through the woods at Vauxhall Gardens. He wanted more than minutes.

And that is what they possessed between them.

Minutes.

She was borrowed brilliance, and soon she would dash out of the woods to be with the rest of glittering London. Like some jewel. And he would retire home, as he had wished, except now it would no longer be a safe haven. Now it would be a reminder that once he had met something truly remarkable.

If they shared names, it would only make the pain of what was to come more real.

"I suppose if we are not sharing names, then we are not sharing other details, but I do know you are too caught up in your thoughts right now." She laughed and pressed her thumb against the creases between his pinched brows. "I can tell you have a great mind. That is something to be proud of."

He didn't know what to do with a compliment. Most everyone hated him for his mind and the way it obsessed over the smallest of details. Even if he had been proud of his mind, and once he had been, now it mostly felt like a burden. As if he owed everyone an apology for working his way through the world with some unfair advantage.

"I do well, thank you," he said awkwardly.

Henry spun her, watching her emerald dress fan out around her there in the dark. But her hair was fire, and he was a moth drawn to flame, desperate to burn himself for the pleasure of one more touch.

It didn't make sense.

None of this did.

The stranger twirled back, bracing one hand against his chest to avoid colliding with him. He was desperate to know what that would feel like. What it would do to him to feel her weight against him, her skin to brush against his? He was never a gambling man. He left that to his brother Rafe, but he would guess her hair was soft as his favorite Savile Row silk vest. And she would taste, well, he couldn't venture to guess that. Her perfume was altogether alluring, and if she were to taste like honey cakes and tea, he would lose what he understood of the world.

Because until tonight, he hadn't believed in love.

He hadn't believed he wished to find it.

"You, poor, silly man," she cooed, bracing his face between her silk-covered palms.

His heart, that cold, icy organ rumored to be in his chest, beat, blooming into something unrecognizable with each proceeding drum. As if, after all this time, he had been sleepwalking.

"I don't understand you or this," he whispered. He shuttered his eyes toward her, melting into her touch. "Can you make this make sense?"

"Life may be this big, sweeping thing, but love is discovered in between the million tiny moments when you learn to live your life. I have lived my life fully, much to the disappointment of many. And I assure you that I have never found someone quite as intriguing as I have found you."

"You mean knocked unconscious at the base of a sycamore tree?"

She paused, words almost visibly tripping up on her full lips. "Wit can only push you so far in this life. You learn by feeling." She pressed her hand against his chest. "Here. I promise, if you feel something, then you are living, and nothing is wrong. Madness lies in nothing. I might not enjoy everything I feel, but I have found the courage to embrace the pleasant and unpleasant. That is something to be proud of. That is something so many in this world never reach. Don't be another. You are far too special to walk around this world stuck in your head, too afraid to open yourself up to what awaits."

Henry always had a retort. It was his job, after all. But that speech was beautiful.

She was… beautiful.

"I need to know your name," he whispered instead. " Please ."

She shook her head. For a moment, he thought she would push him away, but instead, she curled her fingers into the lapels of his waistcoat and tethered herself to him. Rooting him there in this existence he never thought possible.

He could not be in love because he hadn't known this woman for long. Hell, he hadn't known her one whole night.

"I can see you trying to make sense out of something that doesn't make sense. Stop."

He swallowed, his palms suddenly sweating. She was mere inches away, and he couldn't kiss her.

Henry so desperately wished to kiss this stranger.

"What will you do tomorrow?" he asked instead.

She shrugged. "The same as every other day, except now I will have met you. And I don't know if I'll be sorry or glad of it."

"Glad of it, I'd like to think."

"Wouldn't that be lovely?" She closed her eyes, and her long eyelashes fluttered against the holes in her mask.

"You're lovely." Henry cleared his throat, instantly wishing he had kept that thought to himself. He hadn't had a drink earlier, and still, he was walking around uttering the most inefficacious things to a stranger who nearly bashed his head in.

He drew in a steadying breath, pulling his focus to his feet on the earth, the cool September evening breeze that brushed across his face, the silk of her gown in his palms.

And that's where the center of his world tipped. Henry Davies, barrister extraordinaire and virgin, had a woman wrapped in his arms, and he was more focused on his words than his actions. Which likely accounted for why he was a virgin.

"What if we snuck away?" she whispered. "I am so ready to leave them all behind. Would you take your chance on me and try finding our way out of here?"

"Where would we go?"

"Anywhere." She laughed. "I realize how that sounds. It sounds like I hit my head and not you. No, no. Then maybe I should return to the party. I won't keep you any longer."

"What if I wish to stay? What will you think of me?"

"I will think you made an excellent choice."

He grinned then. Something split open in his chest. Maybe it was his heart shaking off years of cold and ice to accommodate this beguiling woman.

He didn't have the slightest idea of kissing. And Henry was sure he was about to do it all wrong, but he also knew he had to kiss this woman.

Especially as she stepped up on her toes and dragged him closer by his jacket lapels. "Kiss me first, then take me away. For tonight, I wish to only be with you."

Henry leaned down and pressed his mouth firmly to hers. But that didn't feel right. So, he softened the pressure, tasting the champagne on her lips, light and tasting like pears and honey. He tilted his head, adjusting his approach, groaning as she returned his kiss in equal measure.

Kissing, it turns out, was not the end of the world. Nor was it a terrible pastime.

He enjoyed it.

And he wished to continue.

The mechanics of the act faded from his mind and whether he was doing it right or wrong, then he melted into the feel of her lips against his, the slight breath she would issue if he nipped her bottom lip with his teeth, how she swayed against him as the rest of London seemingly swirled around them there in the dark.

She pulled back, resting her cheek against his for a moment. He swallowed, attempting to gather his thoughts which were spinning wildly about in his head. He tilted his face and dropped a soft kiss on her forehead, and he thought she sighed once more.

"How was that?" Henry asked, clearing his throat. "I mean… was that pleasurable for you?"

The beautiful stranger gazed up at him, studying his eyes as if she were about to unlock a big mystery. "That was perfect."

"Where shall we go?" He stepped away, offering his arm to escort her out into the dark September night.

She froze, glancing over her shoulder as the sound of angry shouts approached.

He stepped in front of her, searching her eyes, realizing only then he would need to step away, and they didn't know one another's names. This would be it. He had only met her and already, he was losing her.

"I want my money, and if you won't pay me," a voice said on the other side of the trees, "then I will challenge you to a duel. And I won't be a gentleman about it. I never am when it comes to coin."

He didn't wish for whatever trouble was brewing to spill over and endanger the stranger. He reached for her hand and pressed a kiss to the top. Damn gloves and all the other silly fripperies women must wear in public.

"I'm so sorry. This is not what I wanted," he whispered. "I hope I will see you again."

"Don't go. Please."

Footsteps and rustling leaves erupted. Any minute they would be discovered, and he wouldn't risk her ruined.

"I must, sweet." He sprinted toward the edge of the woods, leaving her there alone under the sycamore trees. "I must, and I wish so very much I didn't have to. Meet me here next summer if you are able. A June evening. I will wait every night."

She laughed, brushing at her cheeks with her gloves. "That is absurd. I am… I must wait until then? What if you can't make it?"

"I give you my word. Next June. I will be here, waiting. We've only met, but I promise I will wait years for another evening with you."

He jumped out back into the party, blinked at the lanterns hanging in the trees, and scanned the crowd for the men who were arguing. Wrong or right, there must be an answer besides a duel. And as usual, he would see justice served. Damn him and his logical mind.

He glanced back toward the woods, swallowing down the nerves that ricocheted inside his body, certain he had just lost a part of himself.

Tilly remained in the dark for a few moments, pressing her gloved hand against her lips, certain she had just experienced the most perfect kiss of her lifetime.

And he had just dashed back out toward the party to play knight-in-shining armor, and she was none too pleased about it. Chivalry was overrated.

She laughed to herself, curling her free arm around her middle. She would need to face her colleagues from the theater. They likely missed her, but she enjoyed fading into the background for a little while.

Tilly grew up on the stage in Dublin and didn't know any different. And with seven brothers and sisters, her house was always a chaotic jumble of shouts and singing and dramatics.

She hadn't known anything different, but she certainly was ready for a change.

London held women to such a high standard, and she worked hard to maintain that image. She realized just how quickly she could be tossed aside as London's sweetheart and end up in the East End, or worse. She had real talent, and she wished to be recognized for it.

But if London discovered the truth, she would lose everything.

He would lose everything because of her mistake.

And she couldn't stomach that. She couldn't do that to Ethan.

She brushed back her hair, straightened her mask, and slipped back out into the party, watching everyone dance and laugh under the last glimmer of summer. The weather had been so agreeable that Vauxhall Garden was open uncharacteristically late for the season.

She would audition for a new role in the morning, one that would stretch her skills and certainly one that could cement her status in her social circles. She never wished to be just another actress, she wished to be Matilda Brennan who brought audiences to their feet with each performance. She wished to be appreciated by the critics of London. She wished to support herself and not rely on the strings that came with benefactors.

And she wished, most of all, that Roger would find another actress to swan about after because she was tired of him threatening to take everything away from her.

"Oh, there you are, Matilda."

Her friend and fellow actress Betina Meyers swooped in, hooking her arm through Tilly's. She was petite and curvy, and even when she wore her hair in blonde ringlets, she only stood to Tilly's shoulders.

Betina was known for her comedic acting talent and had performed at several London theaters before Tilly became her understudy two summers prior.

"Heavens, what happened to your wrist? You wandered away on us, and you missed Lord Bucksworth attempting to arm wrestle a German prince. I say attempting because Lady Amelia Jordan had to step in and stop it before the prince embarrassed himself."

"I needed a moment," she said, distracted by the commotion around her. The party, now several hours in, saw many of the guests well into their cups, and merriment and chaos abounded.

"He was looking for you," Betina said.

Tilly whipped her head around to meet her friend's worried stare. "It's bad enough he dictates what I do on stage, but now he must follow me around as well."

Betina leaned closer. "I bargain he wants more than to follow you around."

"I know very well what he wishes," she snapped, "and I've been clear I am not interested."

"I don't think that will stop him."

Tilly nodded, scanning the crowd for Roger's tall frame. He hulked around London, tossing threats around and controlling the purse strings on Drury Lane. It wasn't as if he had earned respect from anyone, but he commanded it, nonetheless, because no one dared go against him.

Tilly wished to be married. She wished for a family. And she was certain Roger would never allow it until she made her way into his bed first. She had made that mistake once in Dublin. She vowed never to do it again.

"He'll ruin everything for you," Betina continued. "He is not a patient man, and if you make him wait much longer, I suspect you won't be able to act in London again. Not to mention what happens if he exposes?—"

"Not here," Tilly rushed. The panic clawed at her throat. It wasn't as if she hadn't thought of it all before. She had worked for years from a young child touring with traveling theater groups. And now, some small-minded man wished to take it all away from her because she didn't wish to be his mistress. He wanted complete control of her.

And she was powerless to do much of anything because of what was at risk if he exposed her.

Without a reputation, she would have nothing. Which was why she fought to keep her character pristine by attending endless charity events and teas. If attending an event, she brought her crabby chaperone and never strayed out onto a dark balcony. She was skilled in polite conversation, was excellent at piano and needlework, and never participated in any flirtations with the many potential patrons who waited to be introduced at the end of all her performances.

Which was all the more reason why her behavior this evening was both alarming and surprising. It was careless, and yet she wasn't satisfied by one magical kiss in the forest.

She grabbed a glass of champagne off a tray from a passing waiter and gulped down the bubbly liquid. Her world had just been altered, and she wouldn't let Roger steal away what she had just discovered with her handsome stranger.

She would find him again, and he would be hers.

Funnier things had happened. Falling in love in an instant was not beyond reason. She had parted ways with reason years ago and had been much happier for it.

"Now come along," Betina insisted. "Come sing with us. Let's worry about Roger later."

Tilly did what she did best, forced on a smile and acted as though she wasn't being blackmailed by an utter cad, and the ton loved her all the more for it.

Dawn was quickly approaching, and Henry tumbled out of the carriage, laughing to himself as he stumbled a step. It wasn't like him to stay out all night with his friends, who now taunted him from inside the carriage.

After breaking up the duel, he left with Stephen to attend a private party somewhere near Mayfair before finding himself at a gaming hell. He hadn't seen her again.

He had searched.

Even with her bright red hair, she had disappeared.

But he would see her again, and perhaps soon.

"Get some sleep, Romeo," Stephen teased. "Being lovestruck suits you. I dare say you're tolerable now."

When Henry sobered up, he might take offense, but right now, it felt as if he could run for miles. It felt as if he could make the sun rise in the morning and set at night, and still have enough within him to summon the moon on the stormiest night.

He hadn't had this much fun… in well, forever.

He had stood in London and felt as if he belonged, and everything was possible. He had certainly worked toward such an end for some time. He hadn't believed it though until this morning, lovesick and foolishly hopeful.

Henry would find her, surely.

He would find her, and they would court as she deserved to be courted and then… well, his heart ached to hold her again with each beat. He supposed once he found her again, they would take it one day at a time.

"I will marry her," he shouted, spinning with his arms tossed out wide. "I know it. And I am never wrong."

"Out of the road, Davies," Michael shouted. "You'll be run over by a carriage, then you'll never find her."

Raucous laughter erupted from within the carriage before it jerked and rode off, leaving him standing in front of his building.

His life had changed. And he was a new man.

With a silly grin still pasted to his face, he stumbled to his doorstep. Perhaps he had had a few too many drinks with his friends that evening. He rarely did, but he had enjoyed himself. And to think Rafe was having this much fun all along? What a blessing not to be the eldest son.

Not that he was bitter.

No, not at all.

Henry had done what his mother needed, at least according to his uncle. She was simply too sad after the passing of his naval captain father on a ship to Brazil. Henry was sent to London, Rafe was sent to become an apprentice of Captain Ackerman, and Mari had remained, looked after by a few of the women in their small Welsh village until their mother recovered from her grief.

He pushed through his door, missing the table when he tossed his keys. He pulled off his boots, dancing around the small sitting room tugging off each. The room was spinning too fast. He hardly had the upper hand in undressing.

It wasn't fair, really.

He tossed his boots by the door, then staggered a step to grab his keys, catching sight of the letter that had been shoved under his door. He lifted it, feeling everything tilt out of focus.

Fine, next time he wouldn't have so much to drink.

What a strange feeling to receive from holding a piece of stationery.

But he knew this was different by the seal on the back—elaborate and red. One that left him searching for a reason why he would receive a letter such as this.

His hands trembled as he opened the letter, and he read it once, feeling the floor give out beneath him. He sank down to the rug and clutched the letter in his hand.

His father's cousin had passed, leaving Henry an earldom and a crumbling family seat on the Isle of Wight.

And he was needed immediately for a meeting to discuss the transition.

Damn it all.

Henry leaned his head against the wall, clutching the letter and remembering the bloodstained handkerchief tucked away in his jacket pocket embroidered with a simple B .

Barbara, Beatrice, Bridget…

He hadn't even asked if she were married. Though he ventured she wouldn't have shared a kiss with him if she were.

And now, his world had, in fact, turned upside down.

He was the Earl Devlin, no longer Henry Davies.

Henry Davies, once hailing from Wales, now had inherited Cliffstone Manor on the Isle of Wight. He hadn't visited before. Hadn't a clue what life was like there. Or what the house was like—only described as "in a state of disrepair." Or how he would be as an earl.

But once again, he wasn't given a choice.

As the eldest, this was his duty.

And if he had done anything successfully in his thirty-one years, it was to uphold his duty.

There was no allowance for daydreams, beautiful masked strangers, and heated kisses. No drunken nights with friends when he was tasked with turning everything around. Henry would return to work and devote himself to where he was needed wholeheartedly.

No matter how perfect his evening was.

It might as well have been a dream.

That glimpse of what life could be would have to wait. He would need to treasure his brief time with his beautiful stranger and meet up with her in June if not before. His family needed him, and he always answered that call, no matter how difficult.