Chapter 1

Chapter One

P eople were staring at his trousers. Men and women alike were ogling him. Munro Notley had been on English soil approximately thirty-two hours before that blasted column had been published and since that moment, the first thing anyone did upon encountering him was stare at his cock. If he ever discovered the identity of the so-called Brazen Belle, he would unleash a torrent of words so vile, her ears would ring for a week.

He stood just outside the ballroom at Notley House, the family town house in Berkeley Square, one of the most fashionable addresses in London's Mayfair. He'd been summoned here by his eldest brother, Viscount Notley, to celebrate the impending nuptials of Arthur's first-born, Lavinia, to the Duke of Ramsbury. Munro wouldn't have heeded the summons except that his brother had threatened to call in every favor the powerful viscount possessed to ensure Munro was turned away from every inn, posting house, and hotel between London and China.

And so Munro had taken the first packet back to England, telling himself he could survive three weeks. Twenty-one days, give or take. The banns must be called three times and then his niece could marry her duke, and Munro could slink back to the Continent.

Arthur's butler announced the couple just in front of Munro, and the two swept into the ballroom, arm-in-arm. The orchestra continued to play a lively reel, and no one seemed to take notice. Munro supposed now was as good a time as any to make an entrance. If he were fortunate, the music would be too loud for anyone to hear his name.

He stepped forward, offered his card. The butler took it, stared at it for a moment, then glanced at Munro.

"Hullo, Frobisher. I believe His Lordship is expecting me."

"Yes, sir." The butler's gaze dropped to Munro's breeches.

"Not you, too, Frobisher."

"Sir?"

"Eyes above my waist, if you please."

"Of course." The butler cleared his throat then shouted in a clear, loud voice, "Mr. Munro Notley."

Clearly, Frobisher had missed his calling. He might have made a fortune treading the boards with that projection and enunciation. Every single head turned Notley's way, even that of the members of the orchestra. One violin screeched, and the music fell silent. And then every eye dropped from his face to his breeches, and Munro could feel their gazes burning a hole through the fabric in their efforts to catch a glimpse of his cock.

He wanted to position a protective hand over his manly member. Instead, he gave the assembled company a courtly bow and forced his own gaze not to roam the faces gathered before him for her face. He had no hope of avoiding her this month. She was the viscountess's sister—the sibling of his sister-in-law. Beatrice Haddington—no, she was Beatrice Barnet now, Solomon's widow—would be present at every single function Munro would be forced to attend.

"Uncle Munro!"

He looked up from his bow to see a dark-haired young lady dressed in an ivory and silver gown coming toward him across the dance floor. He had a moment to wonder who this child might be, and then he recognized her, and his face broke into an enormous grin.

"Lavinia." He caught her up and lifted her, turning her about in his arms. She was eighteen now and too big for such antics, but he couldn't stop himself. He set her down, took her shoulders in his hands, and studied her face. "You've grown up," he said.

She laughed. "Of course, I have. That's what happens when you don't come home for six years."

"The last time I saw you, you were this high and wore your hair in plaits."

"The last time you saw me, I was twelve!"

And yet, surely she was too young to marry. She still looked like a child, her expression sweet and her eyes innocent. What could his brother be thinking, allowing her to marry?

"I am so happy to see you, Uncle. I told Papa my one wish was that you would return for the wedding. You've always been my favorite uncle."

Considering his brother Dudley was her only other uncle, this was no surprise. Dudley was an avid collector of antique footstools who took every opportunity to expound of the virtues of his collection.

"I would not miss your wedding for the world," Munro said, genuinely glad he had come now that his niece was before him. She, at least, did not look at his breeches, which meant she had probably not been allowed to read The Rake Review .

Lavinia took his hand and pulled him into the throng of guests. The orchestra had begun to play again, and the dancers, realizing he wasn't about to drop his breeches and show them the appendage on everyone's mind, were slowly taking positions for a quadrille.

"I must introduce you to Ramsbury."

The Duke of Ramsbury was her betrothed. Munro knew of the duke, of course. He was a man nearing fifty with a daughter just a few years Lavinia's junior and no heir. Clearly, he was marrying again to secure that son and heir. Munro would have preferred the duke marry someone other than his eighteen-year-old niece. Again, what could Arthur be thinking?

But, of course, the viscount was thinking his daughter had the good fortune to attract a duke. She would be a duchess, the mother of the next Duke of Ramsbury, and her future and that of her offspring would be secure.

As Lavinia tugged him across the room, Munro couldn't quite stop himself from perusing the faces he passed for Beatrice's lovely visage. He had no idea what she looked like now. He hadn't seen her in seven years, since the night before her wedding, when she'd refused to elope with him and insisted on marrying his best friend instead. He could still remember the tears shimmering in her green eyes. He'd left saying, "Those tears are only the first you'll shed. Mark my words." Munro sincerely hoped he'd been wrong and Solomon had been a better husband to her than Munro expected.

Munro couldn't quite stop himself from seeking out Solomon Barnet's face too, even though the man had been dead almost three years. It hardly seemed possible London could exist without the tousled blond locks of Solomon. He had been every inch the rake Munro had been, but Solomon's angelic face and charming smile made everyone fall in love with him and forgive him any sin. He hadn't been given a sobriquet. But Munro, with his ginger hair and unwittingly sardonic smile, had been christened Mr. Notorious. The name was one Munro still hadn't been able to shake, if the Brazen Belle's column was any indication.

Lavinia stopped in front of a man of medium height with graying hair and blue eyes. Munro recognized him as the duke even before Lavinia said, "Your Grace, might I introduce my uncle, Mr. Munro Notley? Mr. Notley, His Grace, the Duke of Ramsbury."

Munro bowed and the duke followed, his own bow still and formal. The man looked very much as he had the last time Munro had seen him, more than a decade before. He was in good health, but when Lavinia went to stand at his side, Munro couldn't help but think she looked more like his granddaughter than his bride-to-be.

"Congratulations on your impending nuptials," Munro said.

"I am a fortunate man indeed to have secured the affections of a lady so lovely and intelligent."

A figure appeared at Munro's elbow, and he turned to see Judith, Viscountess Notley, at his side. She gave him one of her signature glares. "The prodigal son returns. Lavinia, your wish has been granted."

"Thank you, Mama. And you, Papa."

Arthur, Viscount Notley, moved to his wife's side. "I'd heard you were back in Town, Munro," Arthur said. He raised a brow, but to his credit, he did not look at Munro's breeches. "We expected you yesterday."

"I'm staying at the Clarendon Hotel," Munro said. "I didn't want to inconvenience you."

Judith looked relieved at this revelation, but Lavinia said, "But Uncle Munro, you must stay with us at Notley House. It's your home too."

"Now, Bunny," Arthur began. Bunny was the pet name he'd always used for his first-born, probably because Lavinia had a sweet little nose and, as a child, fluffy brown hair. That hair had been tamed into an elaborate style tonight and festooned with silver thread and white flowers. She looked beautiful, just like her mother.

Just like her aunt.

No. He was not supposed to be thinking about Beatrice. Lavinia did bear a resemblance to her Haddington relatives, but there were plenty of Notley traits as well.

"Munro is happy at the Clarendon. He's a bachelor and must have his space."

"But we never see him," Lavinia protested. "Lydia couldn't attend tonight. She will be heartbroken at having missed you, Uncle."

Lydia was Lavinia's younger sister, still too young to attend a ball. Lavinia had two younger brothers as well, but Munro assumed they were still at school and would not come to Town until closer to the day of the wedding.

"I'll call on everyone soon," Munro promised, not particularly concerned about Lydia's heartbreak. He hadn't seen her since she was a toddler. He doubted she would remember him. A footman with a tray of champagne passed by, and Munro snatched a glass. He'd had a dose of liquid courage before arriving at the ball, but he needed another if he were to survive this night.

"Lavinia, you mustn't neglect your other guests," her mother said. Lavinia's mouth turned down into a pout, but Ramsbury, hearing his cue, offered his arm and escorted his betrothed away. That left Munro with Arthur and Judith, neither of whom looked overly pleased to see him. Munro lifted his champagne to his lips, found his glass empty, and flagged a footman over, taking two glasses this time.

"I see you managed to find your way to London," Arthur said.

"I didn't have much choice," Munro shot back. "Someone threatened to make me unwelcome at every inn and residence in the whole of the civilized world."

"Had we known you would make a spectacle of yourself upon your return, we might have tried to convince Lavinia you were unreachable," the viscountess said. Her blue-green eyes were smaller and harder than her sister's but still lovely. Now they narrowed in accusation.

"You act as though I wrote the column," Munro said.

Arthur crossed his arms. "Then you've seen it."

"I no more stepped foot in my club than I had it thrust under my nose. Who the devil is this Brazen Belle? I'd like a word with the chit."

"You and every other man she's called out," Arthur said. "Last month it was the Earl of Belmont."

"Surely, the earl knows who she is. I'll speak with him, expose her, and then I'll save us all from the humiliation of my presence and hie back to Italy." He finished his third glass of champagne and felt his anger about the column receding. One more glass and the constant stares at his cock wouldn't even bother him.

"Oh, no you won't," Arthur said. "Bunny wants you at her wedding."

"I'll speak with her." Where the devil was that footman?

"No, you will not," Judith said. "She is marrying the Duke of Ramsbury at St. George's. This is the wedding of the year, perhaps the decade. No expense has been spared, and we must have the entire family in attendance. We will do the Notley side of the union proud."

"You have Susan, Mary, Dudley, and their assorted offspring for that. Surely you don't want Mr. Notorious in attendance."

"Shh!" Arthur looked over his shoulder. "Keep that name to yourself. We don't want it resurrected."

"It's far too late for that—"

"Munro, this is your chance at redemption," Judith said. "For once, show the world you are more than Mr. Notorious. You might play the part of the doting uncle and upstanding citizen."

"It's time you returned to England and ceased gallivanting about the Continent," Arthur said. "I need your help here. God knows Dudley can't be pried away from his footstools for long enough to help manage any of our estates or business affairs."

Munro would have dropped his champagne glass if Judith hadn't taken it from him. Arthur needed help? The heir and perfect son wanted Munro's assistance? Had hell frozen over? Were pigs flying? He must have looked completely dumbfounded because Arthur clapped him on the shoulder. "Think about it, Munro. Now is the chance to repair your reputation. In the meantime, move your things to Notley House. Bunny wants you here."

And then Lord and Lady Notley were gone, and Munro was standing alone, looking for another glass of champagne.

She was here. She had to be. The more he tried to forget about her, the harder the chore. He was afraid to move about the ballroom, lest he come face-to-face with her. He worried if he stood still, he'd spot her dancing with some young, eligible bachelor. He couldn't stomach the sight of her in another man's arms. That's why he'd left England to begin with. He needed to leave Arthur's town house now, but this was Lavinia's betrothal ball, and he wanted to be here for her. He hadn't been a part of her life for years.

And every time he felt cornered or anxious, he took a sip of champagne.

Now he was foxed. More than a trifle disguised. Bosky, jug-bitten, and tap-hackled. Munro was drunk, more drunk than he'd been in years, and that was saying something. But then he should have known better than to drink those last two glasses of champagne. He'd been sober as a judge the past few years, and he'd lost the ability to hold his drink. Now, he was lurching about the ballroom, trying to avoid Dudley, who had already cornered him once to rhapsodize on his newly acquired Louis XV footstool.

Munro opened the French doors, hoping some air might sober him, but he spotted his sister Susan on the terrace lecturing her eldest son, a lad of two and twenty, and Munro turned around so quickly his head spun. Back in the ballroom, the dancing and the music caused the world to tilt on its axis, and he opened the first door he found and stepped into a quiet chamber, smelling of perfume. For a moment, he had no idea where he was, then he remembered this was one of the small parlors adjacent to the ballroom.

He turned and spotted half a dozen female eyes on him, and realized this was the room that had always been used as the ladies' retiring room during balls.

"Excuse me," he said. The gaze of every single lady present, except one debutante who was undoubtedly too young to read The Rake Review , dropped to his breeches. Munro took a step back, tripped over a chaise longue, and sprawled on the cushions in what must have looked like blatant invitation.

"Mr. Notley," purred one older woman in a low-cut crimson gown. "I was hoping I might become better acquainted with you tonight."

"As was I," said another woman, this one in a blue gown and with blue eyes to match.

Heaven help him. He was done for now.

"All of you, out."

Munro couldn't see the woman who had spoken with such authority, but he would have known that voice anywhere. He hadn't heard it in seven years, but it didn't matter. He was thrust right back to 1813 and the night before her wedding. She'd ordered him out of her chamber in much the same tone.

The ladies in the retiring room obviously knew what was good for them because the room emptied in a swish of skirts, leaving the scents of roses lingering. Munro thought about sitting, but he didn't think he could manage the coordinated use of his limbs quite yet.

And then Beatrice Haddington—he did not want to think of her as Beatrice Barnet—stepped into focus. He stared at her, his bleary vision clearing.

"No," he moaned because she was so beautiful. She was still so beautiful. He knew he was behaving badly, but he couldn't stop his gaze from raking over her. She wore her long, dark brown hair coiled high with a few loose curls grazing her right shoulder. She'd used to wear it in a tumble of curls over both shoulders, but she was a widow of seven and twenty now and no debutante covered in lace and bows.

Her skin was still that olive color he had always thought looked just kissed by the sun. Her forehead was smooth except for the one telltale crease between her brows that told him she was annoyed or concerned. Her dark brows were thick and winged up slightly at the temples. Her green eyes, always her best feature, peered out at him from under her dark lashes. He called her eyes green, but the color had never been so easy to categorize. They were a soft green that might be called blue in some lights. The inner part of the iris was lighter than the outer. Those eyes were so unique, so captivating, he found it difficult to look away from them.

Munro forced his gaze down her small nose to her red lips. He realized she must have painted them. Widows were entitled to do such things, but he preferred her lips their natural dark pink color. She had heart-shaped lips that begged to be kissed—except right now when she pursed them in annoyance.

He blinked at her and realized she was speaking, while he stared at her dumbly—that was probably the reason for the annoyance.

"I beg your pardon," he said. "You're still so beautiful."

Her lips opened in surprise, and he decided then and there he would need to think of more things to say to surprise her as he liked the way her lips looked when she did that.

"Don't try and flatter me," she said, her voice low and husky. He'd always liked her voice. Even when he'd first met her as a woman little older than Lavinia was now, Beatrice had a voice that made her sound years older. "You're drunk and have stumbled into the ladies' retiring room. I thought better of you."

She had? Munro perked up. Perhaps she was the lone woman over one and twenty who hadn't read The Rake Review .

"Hullo to you too, Beatrice," he said. "I've missed you."

"Do not call me Beatrice. I'm Mrs. Barnet."

"Oh, no." The words were out before he could even think. He swung his legs over until they thudded on the carpet, and he sat straight on the longue. "I won't ever call you that." Now that he was sitting, his eyes were level with her bosom. It was still a very fine bosom—round and high with just a hint of cleavage at the edge of her bodice. Somehow that hint was vastly more tantalizing than the ladies who showed so much more. She wore a cream-colored gown with a gold overlay that seemed to shimmer—though that might have been the champagne playing tricks on his eyes. Though fashion dictated dress waists be placed quite high, her dress had been expertly made to hint at her small waist and generous hips. She was not a tall woman, so he did not imagine she had long legs. He did imagine they were round and soft and—

"Notley. Look at my face."

His gaze traveled slowly back up her body, and when it reached her face, she was scowling. "You're still the worst rake in London. The papers were right about you."

Though he'd consumed enough champagne to sail a schooner down the Thames, those words were a splash of cold sobriety. "Don't tell me you believe that twaddle from The Rake Review ."

"Everyone has read it, sir."

Munro noted she said she had read it, not that she believed it. But then, wasn't that a foregone conclusion? She'd always believed the worst about him. "And you still believe what everyone else says about me."

"What else am I to believe? Look at you. You are the very illustration of a debauched degenerate."

Munro looked down at himself, noting that his cravat was loose, his waistcoat half unbuttoned, his breeches wrinkled, and he was only wearing one glove. He ripped that glove off and tossed it at her feet, raking a hand through his hair and probably making the entire situation worse.

"And now you return to England and don't even offer me an apology for leaving without even a goodbye. Solomon was devastated you did not attend the wedding."

Munro's jaw dropped open. "Is that what he told you? Ha! He was thrilled to have lured you away from me."

Apparently, that was the wrong thing to say because her eyes went flinty, and she crossed her arms over that ample bosom. "I am not a fish to be lured with shiny bait. I married Solomon because I thought I loved him, and he said he loved me."

"I said I loved you." Munro didn't know why he was telling her this, bringing up the past. He couldn't seem to stop himself, though. That was the problem with drinking four hundred and sixty-seven glasses of champagne. One lost one's ability to moderate one's words.

She waved a hand. "You would have said anything to convince me not to marry Solomon. I was a competition between the two of you—nothing more."

Munro shook his head. "That might have been true for Solomon, but it was never true for me."

Shut up, Notley , he told himself. Close your potato hole and walk away .

"When I told you I loved you, that was the first and only time I'd ever said that to any woman," he said, his mouth ignoring his brain's dictates.

The crease between her brows smoothed over as her eyes widened.

"I would have done anything for you. When I came to you the night before your wedding, I'd been celibate for a year because you were the only woman I wanted. And you chose Solomon who had not been faithful to you for even a sennight."

Silence descended, and the door creaked open slightly. A young woman with blond hair peeked inside. "Might I use—"

"Get out," Beatrice said.

The door banged shut.

"You tried to tell me about him," she said quietly. "I didn't believe you." She stepped forward. "You really became celibate? For me?"

"I wanted you," he said. "I never stopped wanting you." Why was he still speaking? Why was he telling her this? She'd hurt him, rejected him outright. Why would he ever give her the opportunity to do it again?

"You wanted me so much that you frequented every known brothel and den of iniquity on the Continent and the Americas?"

She was quoting that blasted column, and Munro fisted his hands in anger. "I sure as hell didn't stay celibate after you leg- shackled yourself to Solomon. I did anything and everything I could to keep the image of you in his bed out of my mind, but if you believe I visit prostitutes or the rest of that claptrap the Brazen Belle has written, you don't know me at all."

Her gaze slid down then. She hadn't looked before, but she did so now. He'd drunk far too much to be able to react—or so he thought. His cock had other ideas and began to harden at the feel of her gaze on it.

"None of it is true then?" she asked.

"There's only one way to find out," he said.

"Are you suggesting I sleep with you?"

"I didn't think we'd do much sleeping."

She huffed out a breath and turned away, disgusted.

Quite suddenly, he didn't want her to walk away. "I'd ask you to marry me," he said. "But you'd say no. Again."

She whirled back around, her green eyes wide. Devil take him, what had he done now? Why could he not shut the hell up?

And yet, a flicker of hope burned in his black heart.

And just as she had before, Beatrice Haddington blew it out. "You're right," she said. "I made the mistake of marrying one rake. I won't do it again."