Prologue

London, 1808

The ballroom was full of chattering, important people. Nineteen-year-old Catherine Mallory felt rather overwhelmed, but she was doing her best to enjoy herself. She had lately become engaged to the Duke of Winstanton, who planned for them to make their home at his castle in the north. Catherine knew—he told her at least once a day—that he was not fond of London.

She had only been part of the social scene for three months, barely any time at all, and now she was to be married. Her sister Sophia, at seventeen, was longing to join in the balls and parties, while fifteen-year-old Ellis preferred to curl up in bed with her book. It was Catherine who led the way, as her mother liked to remind them. She blazed a trail for her sisters to follow, one of grand marriages and more money than they knew what to do with, as that was Mrs. Mallory’s vision of success. They had been as poor as church mice when they left their village in Hampshire, after accepting the kind offer of Mrs. Mallory’s cousin to introduce them into society. Despite Catherine’s beautiful face and serene nature, no one had quite expected her to unleash such a storm among the ton. There had been several flattering proposals, but the duke’s was the pick of them.

If only he weren’t so old. Catherine tried not to sigh, because Winstanton was very old indeed, and she found the thought of him touching her, kissing her, repugnant. Most of the time she tried not to think about it at all.

“He’ll probably die in a year or two,” Sophia had said with a callous shrug. “You’ll just have to put up with it. Unless you find yourself a handsome lover.”

Sometimes her sister seemed far less innocent than Catherine knew her to be.

A deep chuckle caught her attention, and she looked about for its owner. A tall, fair-haired gentleman stood with a group of ladies, his smile both charming and mischievous. He chuckled again, and several of the ladies giggled. This was the sort of man she had naively believed she would marry. Young and handsome, like the hero in one of Ellis’ books. But then life wasn’t like a story in a book.

“That’s Albury,” the duke hissed in her ear.

Catherine started and turned to look at him. “Albury?”

“Viscount Sebastian Albury. His father is the Earl of Eltham, and his mother...” Winstanton’s already thin mouth tightened until it was almost lipless. “She was killed in an accident in a gig. Albury was driving.”

“How dreadful,” Catherine whispered. Although, watching Albury now, he didn’t appear to have suffered from the experience. She hadn’t meant to speak the words aloud, but she must have, because the duke took her arm and turned her away from the handsome viscount. He shot her a reproving look.

“Albury might be young, but he is already bidding to be a rake. A heartless lecher.” He pronounced the word with relish, and added a nod when Catherine gasped. “Since the earl banished him, Albury spends his days drinking and carousing.”

The words were shocking, but when she turned her head again she was even more shocked to see that Albury was now standing right behind them. He had no doubt heard his personal business being discussed so freely, as anger made his pale blue eyes blaze before they cooled and he settled his features into a bland smile. Catherine supposed he’d had lots of practice shrugging off gossip, and even if he was as guilty as the duke said, she still felt sorry for him. Catherine, too, had been the subject of gossip and knew how painful it could be.

Albury met her gaze, and she could see the spark of interest in their pale depths. She was used to being ogled and called “exquisite,” and in the beginning it had turned her head a little. Not anymore. She had soon discovered that these people weren’t interested in what she thought or how she felt, only in how she looked. After her amazing rise from poor country girl to a duke’s intended, they seemed to think that by being in her company some of her good fortune would rub off on them.

“Winstanton,” the viscount said loudly, with the slightest of bows.

Catherine was amused to see the duke jump in surprise before he spun about. She held a gloved hand up to her mouth to muffle a nervous giggle. Albury’s gaze was on her again, and the mischief she had noticed earlier returned to his handsome face.

“Who is this gorgeous creature?” he asked. “Do introduce us.”

Catherine felt her cheeks heat. It was the way he was looking at her. She had been looked at a great deal over the past three months, but no one had done so with such a warm, teasing smile.

The duke’s face pinched as if he’d sucked on a lemon. “This is my future wife, Miss Catherine Mallory. And I will thank you to keep a civil tongue in your head, Albury.”

Catherine noticed he didn’t introduce the viscount to her, a slight that couldn’t have gone unnoticed. Albury took it in his stride, bowing in her direction now, while those icy blue eyes swept over her in a manner that was anything but icy.

“But of course! The beautiful Miss Mallory. I had heard there were a great many gentlemen vying for her hand. And you are the lucky fellow who won her, Winstanton? I presume it was your wit and charm that did the trick.”

Despite his words verging on insult, the droll note in his voice took away the sting. Besides, there was that teasing sparkle in his eyes that seemed to invite her to join with him in laughing at the ridiculousness of it all. Catherine suspected Viscount Albury did not take life very seriously.

Winstanton wasn’t listening. “As soon as I saw her, I had to have her. She has the sort of beauty one rarely sees.” He had spoken like this before, as though she weren’t even present, and Catherine found it embarrassing.

“Ah yes, I recall you are a great collector of beautiful things.” Now Albury was looking at him cooly. The next moment he turned that charming smile again on Catherine. “The duke and my father are neighbors, if one can call a journey of a full day a neighborly distance.”

Hope lit inside her. “Oh. Then perhaps we will see you at the castle?”

Albury laughed but there was no humor in it. “I rarely visit, I’m afraid. London has so much more to offer.”

Winstanton was staring at Catherine, and she wondered if he had heard a word of the conversation. He nodded, as if in reply to some thought of his own. “She will be the prize of my collection.”

The viscount and Catherine exchanged glances.

“Your collection?” Albury repeated. “I thought your obsession was pottery, Winstanton. Miss Mallory does not look like a vase to me.”

Catherine almost giggled again but swallowed it down when the duke shot her a warning look. “My collection comprises many beautiful pieces.”

Albury frowned, as if the duke’s words troubled him. “It sounds like you plan to put Miss Mallory upon a shelf and leave her there.” He gave a slight shake of his head and leaned toward her, his voice no more than a whisper in her ear.

“You could always run away with me.”

Her eyes widened. Albury wanted to run away with her? He was joking, surely? Yes, now he winked at her, so he was not being serious. Her heart did a little dive of disappointment, but even as she reminded herself how much was riding on her triumphant marriage, running away had seemed—just for a moment—like the perfect plan.

“Damned cheek,” the duke muttered. “What did he say, Catherine? Tell me at once.”

She didn’t answer, watching Albury walk away, his broad shoulders swaying and his long legs eating up the floor.

“I’m glad we will be leaving immediately after the wedding,” Winstanton went on, his vicelike clutch on her arm making her wince. “You will have plenty to occupy you once we get to Winstanton.”

And Viscount Albury is our neighbor.

Perhaps he read the words in her head because her future husband gave a grimly satisfied smile. “And don’t worry about Albury. He never leaves London. You will not see him again.”