Chapter 1

Chapter

One

1777, London

L ady Genevieve knew better than to sneak out of her father's London home in the middle of the night. Still, a friend in need came before reputation and sanctions, which her father would definitely impose should he ever find out about her escapades. Her mama would probably have a fit of the vapors and ask her long-suffering companion for smelling salts or her preferred much calming potion of laudanum.

Genevieve, whom she was known affectionately by her friends, used the ballroom doors that stepped out onto a large terrace overlooking their sizable gardens in the heart of Mayfair and tiptoed to the side of the house where she ran toward a gate hidden within a wall of ivy. Her voluptuous gown made working her way through the ivy difficult. She snagged a part of her dress on the gate and swallowed a curse. Why women had to wear such an absurd amount of material was a mystery she would never understand.

Male laughter and the sound of glass breaking seized her movement to a halt, and she waited in the ivy. Footsteps sounded on the pebbled road beyond, and then the undeniable voice of her brother, slurring his words of protest at having been sent home by his closest friend in the world, Beckett Green, Lord Tyndall, a vexing, teasing busybody of a man whom she had always secretly adored until he called her a carrot top and her infatuation came to an abrupt end.

How dare any gentleman—if he could call himself that—term a lady so. She had red hair, yes, and now, thanks to him, she went to great pains to hide it from society whenever possible. No one would ever know.

Nor would she ever let Lord Tyndall know of her childhood crush. His head did not need to become any more significant than it already was. Not to mention, she did not want several widows who sauntered the ballrooms of the ton to come after her with pitchforks. Not that they would, in truth, go after her with such weapons, but Lord Tyndall was a well-sought-after gentleman. He was titled, handsome, and wealthy. A matchmaking mama's dream, even her own.

But Lord Tyndall would never romantically look at her. He had often said over the years that she was too annoying and cloying and needed to go elsewhere and leave him and Martin alone to their manly business.

Not that she thought he had much men's business at sixteen, but ten years had passed since then, and he still looked upon her as if she were in pigtails and the annoying little flea who followed them around, begging to be included in their games.

But she did not need to be included any longer. She had two friends, the best of friends in the world, whom she would only ever need. Her brother could do what he liked these days, and it would be all the better if he stayed out of her way, for she had a husband to catch.

London's newest member. A gentleman from abroad, America, to be exact. He was handsome, rich, and the opposite of whom she had to dance with these past three years. But she was determined not to endure a fourth Season, hence why she was sneaking out with her friends to Lady Russel's ball, where Mr. Roger Venzellons was sure to be, and where she could continue her pursuit of him.

Rumor had it he enjoyed nothing more than the balls at Lady Russel's, and so that is where she and her friends were going, even if her parents forbade her and thought her in bed. What they did not know surely would not hurt. And Lady Russel's balls tended to be more demimonde rather than haute ton ...

Genevieve pushed back into the ivy just when the nuisance Lord Tyndall decided the side gate was where he was going to bring her brother through. Unless she dived into the nearby roses, there was little she could do but be caught and seen.

She strolled the garden bed, leaning down to smell one of the roses just as her brother and Lord Tyndall stumbled through the gate. "Genevieve, is that you, sister?" Her brother hiccupped and chuckled, and Genevieve fought not to roll her eyes. "Either I'm more foxed than I thought, or my sister is gardening at midnight."

"You're not hallucinating, Martin. Your sister is indeed in the garden." The deep, annoyed timbre of Lord Tyndall's voice set Genevieve's hackles to rise, and she lifted her chin, no longer willing to be chastised by a man who was beneath her. After all, she was the daughter of a duke, and he was nothing but an earl. How dare he insinuate her being in the garden was anything other than her enjoying the roses at midnight? Plenty of ladies did so, she was sure, and she certainly would hold to that story and not let his lordship question her whereabouts. She owed nothing to him.

"Am I not allowed in my own yard, Lord Tyndall? Who are you to say anything about it?" she said, giving him her back and inspecting another rose that, at this time of night, she could not discern its color.

"Go in that direction, Martin, and you shall find the ballroom doors on the terrace. Find your room and sleep off your whisky," Lord Tyndall said, giving her brother a friendly push in the direction of the terrace. Thankfully, her brother did as he was asked and stumbled off until the terrace doors slammed closed, and her sibling was at least safe for one more night.

If Genevieve thought her interaction with the earl was over, she was sorely mistaken. An annoyed sigh sounded behind her. She rounded on him, hands on hips, and glared, even though she knew her face was in shadow due to the moon being behind her. "Why, may I ask, are you still here, Lord Tyndall? Should you not leave now that you've sorted my brother like an errant child?" Genevieve couldn't help but speak to his high-handed lordship in a scathing tone. The man was maddening, and she had never quite gotten over the fact that at the tender age of fifteen, she had thrown herself at his head in a fit of expectation and hope and had been sorely rejected.

Lord Tyndall had held her at bay with his hand on her forehead and laughed excessively in her face. She had never quite gotten over the embarrassment, and he damn well knew it. She could no longer remember why she had thought he was open to her advances. Perhaps he had smiled at her through dinner that evening or listened to her piano playing eagerly. They had been having a lovely holiday at her parents' ducal estate in Kent, and Lord Tyndall was there. Like always, he was always there, never anywhere else. More the pity. Especially the one where she had made such a fool of herself…

And here he was again, in her garden, chastising her. "A better question to be answered is why you're lurking in the gardens past midnight. I know from your brother that your parents were staying in with you this evening, which means you were also. So, would you care to enlighten me as to why you're outside smelling the roses quite literally?"

She narrowed her eyes, hating that even while Lord Tyndall was insinuating a situation that was none of his business, whether it was true or not, he still was one of the most handsome men in London, with his shoulder-length hair that always looked perfectly coifed. The soft curls seemed to sit on his ideally proportioned head perfectly and made many a lady, herself included, ogle him from time to time. Not that she would ever admit to ogling him at all. Her infatuation had come and most definitely gone.

Mostly.

"I wanted to go for a walk, if you must know. Are you going to send me off to my room like a naughty child also?"

He watched her, silent and considering. Something in his dark gaze made her stomach clench. She swallowed and considered that perhaps he would indeed spank her like a child and send her on her way, and the idea was not without merit or intrigue. Would she like it?

Genevieve shook her head and the absurd thought from her mind and remembered her annoyance with his lordship.

"No, of course not, but I will not leave until you're back inside and safe. We will discuss your nightly pursuits another time, but now, I shall not budge until you're indoors where you belong."

Genevieve knew there was no use arguing with him. He was as bossy as her brother and just as high-handed, and she needed to sneak out again, perhaps not this night, but another and soon, and she did not need him lurking about ensuring she did not. Genevieve turned on her heel and started back toward the terrace.

"Goodnight, Lady Genevieve," his deep baritone said from behind.

A shiver ran down her spine, and she fought not to physically react to his voice.

"Goodnight, Lord Tyndall," she returned in a much harsher, cutting tone that her friends would be proud of, should they have heard it.