Chapter 1

"In matters of the heart, my dear Emma," Agnes Young, sighed dramatically as she delicately plucked another dainty sandwich from the silver platter before her, "love is as irresistible as this cucumber sandwich. But alas, it appears to be fleeing from us this season."

She was sitting on a blanket in Green Park with her dearest friends, Emma Lovell and Frances Hughes, sharing their romantic woes.

"I must concur with you on that sentiment, Aggie," Emma said with a resigned sigh that competed with Agnes'. "It seems our charms have quite the opposite effect on gentlemen—repelling rather than attracting them." She plopped a grape into her mouth and chewed with frustration.

"Oh, come now, ladies! Let us not lose hope so soon. The season is very young; there is still ample time to secure those desirable matches," Frances encouraged brightly.

Emma couldn't help but let out a soft snort at Frances's hopeful outlook. "Quite easy for you to say, Frannie," she retorted playfully yet enviously. Frances' unexpected marriage last season had taken them all by surprise, but also managed to serve as a beacon of hope.

Surprised by Emma's teasing jab, Frances stuttered momentarily before composing herself with a sheepish grin. "Ah well… Life does have its unexpected twists and turns, does it not?" she mused softly.

Agnes pursed her lips, suddenly reluctant to speak her mind. The whispers going around society about her lineage was the primary reason she was not attracting matches. They were true, of course, but her father would never admit it—for that would mean the end of her time in society. As far as everyone was concerned, she was the ward of a very respectable duke. Far from the illegitimacy she was associated with.

"Oh, heavens, do me the favor of letting a husband find me unexpectedly, that I might find respite from my father's ceaseless orations and his fruitless attempts at matchmaking," Emma implored with a theatrical glance skyward. This peculiar supplication sent Agnes and Frances into fits of laughter.

"Be that as it may, my dear Emma," Agnes managed to say, dabbing the corners of her eyes as her laughter subsided, "I remain a steadfast believer in the concept of love. However, I am inclined to think it an exceedingly rare commodity." She had not yet been touched by the flames of love, yet her belief in its untarnished purity was unwavering. Her family was enough evidence of its existence.

"I find myself in agreement with you, Aggie," Frances intoned, her usual vivacity dimming slightly as she slipped into a moment of contemplation. Agnes had barely parted her lips to respond when an all-too-familiar voice interrupted their peaceful assembly.

"Oh, but of course, it shouldn't astonish anyone. We are speaking of Gillingham, after all," the voice declared, filled with scandalized glee that was impossible to ignore. Their gazes moved toward the source of the proclamation. The speaker was none other than Lady Kirkland—society's most notorious gossip-monger, a title she wore with an almost regal bearing. She was surrounded by several other matrons, each lady hanging on to her every word.

"It appears as though Lady Kirkland has found herself a new subject for her ever-turning mill," Frances observed, with a touch of sympathy for the unfortunate soul who had become the latest focus of society's attention.

Agnes was glad the ladies were not talking about her, but then her tale was only whispers uttered in the most secluded of places. "And who might this Gillingham be?" she inquired curiously.

Emma leaned close to her. "If he has become the target of Lady Kirkland's latest campaign, he must be a figure of considerable intrigue…or perhaps misfortune."

"Or perchance, a delightful combination of both," Agnes giggled.

"In all my years attending society events, never have I encountered a rake as notorious as him," Lady Kirkland continued, strolling leisurely past them before pausing a few feet ahead—close enough for them to hear. "His late father, the old Marquess, had an insatiable thirst for drink and cards..."

"And now the son seems to have inherited his appetite, but for women," another lady chimed in with a disdainful chuckle. "It won't be long before he squanders whatever remains of his father's fortune on his own pursuits," she added with a shake of her head. The women resumed their walk, their voices fading.

Emma sighed in frustration. "With men like him roaming our society, it's no wonder we struggle to find suitable matches."

"We may not be rejected outright," Agnes interjected softly. "We are simply not as fortunate as others."

"Did someone mention fortune?" A deep male voice asked, his tone light and playful.

Agnes' head snapped up, and before her stood a man too handsome to be real. For a moment, she wondered if it was her imagination at work, conjuring up this image to fuel her fantasies and lift her spirits.

"I must say I consider myself quite fortunate to stumble upon such a gathering of lovely ladies on this beautiful afternoon," he continued, and her brows furrowed.

For a man with his looks, he was quite lacking in charm. In her opinion, at least. For Frances exchanged amused glances with Emma while Agnes still struggled to find humor in his words. When she looked at him again, she found his gaze intently on her. This sent a jolt through Agnes, contradicting the poor opinion of him that she was forming.

"It is impolite to stare," she blurted before she could stop herself.

Despite finding his intense green gaze disconcerting, she likened it to a dense forest that beckoned exploration—a thought that caught her off guard. With a flourish, he bowed and revealed a red rose he had been hiding behind him. His smile, though capable of stealing her breath away, seemed contrived. What is the matter with this man?

"It is only fitting that such beauty is complemented by something equally exquisite," he said as he extended the flower toward to her.

She hesitated, torn between accepting the gesture and questioning its sincerity. Why would he choose her of all people? Uncertain about this stranger's intentions, Agnes hesitated before shaking her head, and turning away, prompting an unexpected change in his demeanor.

"I see you do not appreciate beauty when it is offered," he remarked with a slight tilt of his dark head.

A pang of guilt pricked at Agnes' conscience. Had she misjudged him?

"I find it difficult to appreciate the trite, sir," she retorted.

"Do you always form your opinions without any substantial basis?"

She noted that he did not appear annoyed or wounded by her words. "My judgments are based purely on what I observe. Therefore, my current conclusions are drawn solely from your behavior, sir," Agnes asserted, her chin jutting out defiantly.

A gentle pull at her dress caught her attention. She glanced down to find Frances's pleading eyes silently begging her to halt this exchange. Emma's gaze held the same warning. But Agnes wasn't in the mood to appease either of her friends or this gentleman standing before her.

Seemingly understanding the situation, he turned toward Emma with a warm smile and offered her the rose instead. Agnes watched as Emma hesitantly accepted his gift.

"I wish you ladies a pleasant afternoon." He inclined his head, his smile intact, and walked away.

"It is impolite to stare? Honestly, Aggie?" Emma exclaimed once he was out of hearing range. "Could you have been any more discourteous?"

"Since when did you become so concerned about courtesy, Emma?" Agnes countered defensively.

"Ever since you recklessly discarded what could have been an advantageous opportunity for yourself," Emma answered sharply. "A gentleman presented you with a rose! What happened to our earlier discussion about luck and prospects?"

"What I seek from these men is honesty, not roses and grand gestures," she responded firmly.

Frances intervened. "Emma?" she began cautiously. "A rose is but a flower. It will wilt and be forgotten in time. But if it carries genuine sentiment within its petals, then that feeling will remain cherished forever."

Emma fell into thoughtful silence before grudgingly conceding to Frances's point. However, not without petulantly whining, "Why don't you ever take my side, Frannie?" The three women burst into laughter at Emma's melodramatic display. "If it isn't rakes and gamblers, it's men with absurdly poetic inclinations," she sighed. "It's no wonder we have no one courting us, Aggie."

"So, are we all in agreement then? His poetry is utterly preposterous?" Agnes asked, and the response was another chorus of laughter.

Agnes was settled at home when the butler, Wells, walked in, and bowed. "The Marquess of Gillingham is in the receiving room, Miss," he announced.

Gillingham… The name rang a bell in Agnes's mind. Then a gasp fluttered from her lips as she recalled Lady Kirkland's mention of him at the park earlier. She sat up abruptly, blinking. Could this day hold any more astonishment? She sprang to her feet.

"Let him in…no, wait…" she glanced around, noting her brothers' toys littering the room. "Show him to the finer drawing room. Thank you."

Wells bowed again and left. Agnes' heart raced. Gillingham in her home? What for? How did he even know of her existence? Or was he here to determine her resemblance to the Duke like the rest of society?

Smoothing her hands down her peach frock, she stepped out of the drawing room and walked down the hallway. As she passed a mirror, she paused and looked at her reflection, instinctively reaching up to pinch her cheeks. Then she caught sight of her bright blonde hair and pale blue eyes. They were the reason for the rumors, for they were identical to the Duke's and his three sons.

Sighing, she made her way to the drawing room where a man waited by the fireplace, his back to her. She noticed he had dark brown hair that was slightly tousled, and he was of a fine build that was flattered by his deep blue afternoon coat.

When he turned, she stopped breathing.

The gentleman in her drawing room was none other than the one she encountered earlier at the park!