Chapter One

London, May 1815

He was, without doubt, the handsomest man she had ever seen.

And the most terrifying.

The atmosphere shifted as he entered the ballroom—tempering the incessant female chatter as the desperate debutantes and their even more desperate mamas caught sight of the object of their desires, and engendering a reverential hush from lesser gentlemen who recognized a superior rival.

And he was superior. To every other creature alive.

He need only crook his little finger to bring forth a rush of devotees eager to worship his superiority in everything that mattered—rank, fortune, and potency.

As he strode across the floor, the crowd parted with the fluidity of movement displayed by the most elegant members of Society.

Unlike me—I'd trip and fall flat on my face.

Eleanor slipped her bracelet off her wrist, then twirled it around her forefingers, seeking solace in the rhythmic motion and the cool, smooth metal against her skin. Her heartbeat steadied, and she allowed herself a smile as a riot of gaudy feathered headdresses nodded in unison as the ladies' gazes followed him. In the animal kingdom, he—the dominant male—incited his rivals to lower their gazes in deference, and the females to submit and offer themselves, like mares in season desperate to mate…

Heat flared in her cheeks, and she suppressed a little pulse of need. The mere thought of intimacy paralyzed her with fear. But she couldn't deny the magnificence of the notion of being claimed by him.

His gaze swept across the room, as if he were surveying his territory. Eleanor stiffened. Would he notice her? Dread and anticipation warred with each other, and, for a moment, she willed him to look. Then the anticipation of pleasure succumbed to terror and she shrank back, lowering her gaze to her bracelet, which she tilted until she could read the inscription inside.

To my darling daughter, on the occasion of your debut.

Papa had presented it to her three years ago. But now, on her fourth Season, the bracelet was, in Mother's eyes, a symbol of Eleanor's failure to secure a husband. But Eleanor cherished the bracelet because it had been given with love. A simple gold band, it lacked the ostentation of the necklace Mother had presented to Juliette on her come-out. But Eleanor's younger sister outshone her in every aspect—why shouldn't her jewelry do likewise?

"My pride and joy." A familiar, sharp female voice cut through the air. "We're confident she'll secure a husband before the Season is over. Eleanor's proven to be a disappointment, of course, but we can weather one spinster in the family when her sister's destined for a great match."

Eleanor glanced up to see her mother talking to Countess Fairchild. As if she sensed her watching, Mother glanced toward Eleanor and frowned. Eleanor slipped her bracelet on, concealing it beneath her sleeve, then resumed her attention on the man who'd entered five minutes before.

Montague FitzRoy, fifth Duke of Whitcombe.

Her stomach somersaulted, followed by a flash of shame, as if he were so far above her that it was a transgression to even look at him. There was a savagery about his features—a strong, furrowed brow beneath which sapphire eyes glittered darkly. Sharply defined cheekbones, as if carved from marble, and a strong, square jaw completed his features.

As for his mouth…

His lips were full and sensual—implying a softness that belied the rest of him. But an air of cruelty lay beneath the surface. Perhaps that softness gave rise to temptation—a promise of tenderness to entice a woman to offer herself to him, only to be devoured at the point of surrender.

The musicians began tuning their instruments, and Eleanor caught sight of her younger sister arm in arm with Colonel Reid. As the son of an earl, anyone might consider him a suitable dance partner. But he was a younger son, therefore, despite his obvious attraction to Juliette, he had no hope of securing her hand. Juliette was merely using him to elicit jealousy in the Duke of Dunton—a man whose title, if not his unsavory person, she'd set her cap at.

Eleanor glanced toward the object of her own desires. Whitcombe was staring at Juliette, and Eleanor's heart sank at the hunger in his gaze—the darkening of his eyes that signified interest in an attractive female.

And Eleanor's sister was attractive. With honey-blonde hair, clear cornflower-blue eyes, and a perfect rosebud mouth, Juliette was the prettiest girl in every room she entered—the epitome of female perfection, which, together with a respectable dowry, compensated for her lack of a title.

Whitcombe moved toward a group of young ladies, and they turned their hopeful gazes on him. He bowed toward one, and Eleanor recognized Lady Arabella Ponsford. The elegant creature nodded graciously, as if to convey humility, but her eyes glittered with spiteful triumph in contrast to her companions' frowns of resentment.

Lady Arabella was Whitcombe's perfect match—in all likelihood, they'd announce their engagement before the end of the Season.

But what if he were merely performing an act? What if, beneath the disdain and savagery, lay a tender soul, who yearned to be loved for himself, rather than his title?

What if, despite his having never looked at Eleanor twice, he secretly dreamed of holding her in his arms—as she secretly dreamed of him?

Stop being a lovesick fool!

She shook her head to dispel the childish dream.

Whitcombe existed at the peak of Society. Whereas she was nothing—a plain, awkward creature who could never begin to understand the ton and its absurd rituals, speeches, and customs, and who never knew what to say until it was too late to say it.

But nothing could stop her from dreaming.

Thwack!

A sharp sting exploded on her arm. She glanced up to see her mother standing before her, resplendent in deep purple silk, brandishing her fan.

"How many times must I tell you to sit up?"

Eleanor straightened her stance and rubbed her arm. "Sorry, Mother."

"I don't need you to be sorry. I need you to do as I bid. Have you danced?"

"No."

Her mother let out a sharp sigh. "Your sister's secured a partner for every dance. Colonel Reid danced with her twice."

"That must be a disappointment for you, Mother," Eleanor muttered.

"What did you say?"

Eleanor braced herself for an onslaught. "I—I…"

"Oh, never mind!" her mother huffed. "Why not take a turn about the room rather than hide in a corner? If you make an effort, there's bound to be some young man willing to overlook your flaws."

Eleanor glanced at the dance floor, where the couples moved in perfect formation to the music. How were they able to recall the steps—the intricate patterns of footwork? And how did they execute those steps without bumping into each other? Did they possess an innate sense—similar to starlings who flew together as one, moving back and forth, not a single bird dropping out of the sky?

More to the point—why hadn't she been born with such an instinct? As she cast her gaze over the elegantly attired people, perfectly at ease in their surroundings, all knowing exactly what to say and when to say it, Eleanor wondered, as she often did, whether she were a different species. Perhaps she was a changeling, left by faerie folk in place of the real child.

Her mother's voice tugged her back to the present.

"Did you not hear me, child?"

"I can't help it if I cannot dance," Eleanor said. "Last time I tried, I trod on Mr. Moss's toe. He called me a clumsy oaf."

"He can call you what he likes—he's heir to a baronetcy," came the reply. "You must dance if you are to have any hope of securing a husband—a hope that diminishes as each year passes. You cannot expect your father to sponsor a fifth Season. Why can't you make an effort for my sake? Your dowry should—"

"I don't expect Papa to pay for another Season," Eleanor said, "or a dowry. Papa said—Ouch!"

She let out a cry as her mother's fan came down on the back of her hand.

"Must you always defy me? And look at your hands! You've dirt under your fingernails again."

"It's paint, Mother."

"Paint, dirt—it's all the same. I don't know why you've not worn your gloves."

"Because you told me I'm always soiling them, and that soiled gloves are evidence of an undesirable lack of cleanliness," Eleanor replied.

"I said no such thing!"

"You did—last week you said those exact words when we dined with Lady Tilbury, after I splashed soup on my gloves."

"Oh, did I?"

Eleanor nodded. "And when Lavinia and her aunt came to visit, I spilled tea and you said it again. Don't you recall?"

She glanced up and met her mother's gaze. Green eyes laced with fury glared at her.

I've done it again.

How many times had Papa told her not to contradict her mother, even when Mother was in the wrong?

"I quite despair of you, Eleanor. If it were up to me, I'd…"

Eleanor was spared the knowledge of what Mother would do, if it were up to her, by the arrival of Countess Fairchild.

"Lady Howard, I came to…" She hesitated. "Forgive me, am I interrupting?"

"Nothing of importance, countess."

"Then might I tempt you with some refreshment? And your daughter…"

Eleanor flicked her gaze toward her mother, who, earlier that evening in the carriage, had delivered a lecture on the fit of her dress and her ungainly figure brought about by overindulgence.

"I-I'm not hungry, countess," she stammered. "Thank you."

Her stomach let out a low growl.

"Are you sure?" the countess asked.

"Eleanor intends to secure herself a dance partner," her mother said. "Don't you, darling?".

"Yes, Mother," Eleanor said flatly.

Her mother gave a satisfied nod, took the countess's arm, then headed for the side room where the buffet had been laid out.

Eleanor resumed her attention on the dancers, and her heart gave a little flutter as Whitcombe swept past.

Nobody could prevent her from admiring him—from relishing the way he moved to the music, as if it flowed through his veins, or how his lithe, athletic body formed such perfect outlines as he danced.

The human form—which exuded such vitality—was the most delectable subject to draw and paint. And Whitcombe was not merely a physical form—but a beating heart, rich, warm, blood, and sinew and muscle, binding the bones together. And a living, breathing soul, which, together with the physical form, had created the perfect human being.

Each time she observed him, she saw a little more—a crease around the eyes when he smiled, a ripple of muscles beneath his perfectly tailored jacket. And she committed every tiny detail to memory so that she might capture him in her sketches and portraits.

Why, then, could she never recall more than a few steps of a quadrille?

Her breath hitched as he approached, hand in hand with Arabella Ponsford.

Their eyes met, and Eleanor's stomach somersaulted. She held her breath as she lost herself in his sapphire gaze. For a moment, an invisible thread stretched across the air between them, and her heart began to soar, buoyed with hope.

Then his partner whispered in his ear. His gaze hardened and he curled his lip into a sneer.

Eleanor's heart plummeted. She turned away, biting her lip to stem the tears threatening to sting her eyes.

What a fool she was! The brief connection was nothing more than a fancy—which she should have grown out of the day she left the nursery.

Even if he were to want her, he could never give her the life she craved—a life where she could be herself, not Society's, nor Mother's, ideal of a young woman. Her dream was to live in peace, away from noise and people, where she could be free to paint. Not the soulless little landscapes that adorned the walls of the dullest parlors in London, but paintings that meant something—paintings that portrayed the subject as it ought to be portrayed, not as Society expected.

Marriage would destroy that dream. No husband wanted a wife unable to conform. Men wanted wives to provide them with cash the day they married, give them an heir within a year of uttering the vows, then associate themselves with the other matriarchs of Society to indulge in idle gossip, embroidery, and tea parties, while they sought pleasure in the arms of another.

That was the truth of marriage. And that was Eleanor's idea of hell—a prison inescapable except by death.

But a secret voice still whispered in the back of her mind that she could withstand any prison to be loved by him.