Chapter 1

CHAPTER 1

Rothwell, West Yorkshire

March 1817

T he lamp light was burning low in the modest dressmaker shop, the night’s flickering shadow growing with encroaching inches upon the table. However, Bridget’s eyes were fixed on the tiny, almost invisible stitching of white silk threat on white satin cloth.

The lady who had ordered this gown was Lady Ruth, or as she was locally monikered, Lady Ruthless , and she lived up to her name—so Bridget could not afford to produce something lackluster.

“Just a few more stitches and the hem will be done,” she whispered.

The window rattled with the night wind, and the sudden shock of cold made her shiver, but she tugged her shawl tight around her shoulders and sunk the needle through the cloth.

The nights in Rothwell were calm ones, even in the changeling spring nights. At a huffing of breath, a lock of her brown hair fluttered away from her eyes as she pulled the last stitch into place, tied the knot off, and then slumped into the chair in relief.

Her heavy eyes ached, her fingers stiff with hours of needlework but her heart was light knowing the dress was finally done. Gently, she stood and wrapped the dress in a garment bag and hung it under the screen before preparing to leave the shop.

It was on the underside of nine when she slid the key into the lock and turned the bolt, wrapped her shawl tight, and hurried down the streets, lamp in hand, her heart thumping at the empty road before her.

The tap of her worn half-boots on the cobblestone rang out like gunshots in the silence as she hurried. It would not be too long now, as her godmother’s cottage was just three streets beyond, but with no one around and the imposing silence hemming in on her, it felt like an eternity away.

I should have stayed at the shop and pretended to arrive early tomorrow morning instead of taking this dangerous chance.

Her hand slipped to her pocket where a pair of her sharp shears pressed cold on her skin and she fixed her fingers around it as she kept her head bowed, her face shielded by the brim of her bonnet. A cloud passed from the moon and the silvery rays fell over the battened-up windows of the many shops and dining establishments that lined the pleasant square.

In the backdrop were rolling rural hills and sprawling earthenware factories that had sprouted up there and in the nearby towns.

“Two more streets to go,” she whispered and quickened her steps—only to hear a rough masculine shout from the alley mouth head.

Terror thundered in her chest and she gripped the shears tightly, as her feet felt nailed to the ground.

Turn around.

Turn around.

Run…

“Do we have to do this, gents?” a deep voice slurred in drunkenness. “Surely, we can resolve this another way without violence?”

Against all common sense, she edged closer to the mouth of the head. A horrid stench came from the pile of garbage packed further in the back, but she saw two men, clad in dark clothes, one had greasy, overlong hair, with a jagged mark that bisected the man’s face into two menacing halves. The other had a cap on and was barefoot.

“Aye, we do want to do this, guv ,” one of them snarled. “A certain Lord Harcourt has paid us handsomely to inflict… violence.”

Once again, the clouds moved from the moon and when the rays dropped on the man—her breastbone held her breath hostage.

Clad in his dark dinner jacket and matching breeches, the white of his shirt, waistcoat, and cravat stood out like a beacon.

What is a gentleman doing out here? In the middle of nowhere?

“I doubt you want to do that…” the lord said, staggering a little.

His square face and dimpled chin were chiseled and strong, jawline flinty and sharp, and his skin glinted tan in contrast to his snowy cravat. With how he carried himself, he could only come from centuries of blue-blooded stock.

“…especially in front of a lady,” he ended.

Spinning on their heels, the two men rounded toward Bridget, and the sight of the wicked knife in their hands had her blood going cold. She stepped away— and screamed.

The lord, losing all signs of drunkenness, attacked, landing two efficient blows to both blackguards, sending them crumpling to the wet cobblestone, unconscious.

With his boots, he kicked the knives away, then stepped over them, moving closer to Bridget. Fearful, she stepped back and turned to run— but he grabbed her arm and stopped her. Senseless with terror, she tried to yank her arm away, but his grip was ironclad.

“Stop, Miss,” he muttered, “Please don’t run. I won’t hurt you. I give you my word, I will not lay a finger on you.”

Still terrified, Bridget swallowed and after a tense moment, nodded silently. He dropped his hold on her arm but gripped both her shoulders instead. Even though he had let her go, the feel of his fingers still lingered, as if branded by an invisible iron.

Sweat trickled beneath tight stays as she stared up at him. His strapping arms held restrained power as he caged her, and her heart beat a rapid staccato as his heavy-lidded eyes perused her. Mute, Bridget's eyes traced the crimson scar that pulled taut along the right side of his face, from cheekbone to chin.

“Did…” her voice was frail, “did those men do that to you?”

“Do what to—” he paused, then slipped his hand down to her wrist, only to bring it to his face and slide her forefinger over the scar. “This? No, they didn’t do that. I have been carrying this a long time before they tried to duplicate it though.”

“Who— who were those men?”

“Cutthroats.” He looked over his shoulder to the men, a wry tick of his lips. “Probably hired by a jealous fiancé of a woman I’ve dallied with or a vengeful father seeking equalization for wronging his pure child. Either way, they have not succeeded.”

Dallied? Heavens! He’s a rakehell!

“I see,” a shudder racked through her as she pulled away. “I must go. It’s late and I… please.”

Still, his hold did not lessen. “If it was not for you, those men might have gotten the advantage over me…” His smoldering gaze seemed to penetrate her innermost being and his thumb stroked along her jaw, her chin, “Thank you.”

Is he going to kiss me? Surely not…”

“What could I do to repay you?”

“You needn’t,” she assured him. “I am happy to have helped but, I—I really need to get home.”

“Are you sure?” he asked. “Coin? A jewel perhaps?”

“I am sure, my— my lord,” she stammered. “You needn’t give me anything.”

“But I think… I do,” he replied, his voice a low timbre, both thumbs framing her cheekbones. “Indulge me for a moment.”

He lowered his head toward hers, and instinctively, her eyes fluttered closed. The first touch of his lips melted away the last vestiges of reason.

The strange lord did not apply any pressure, just a gentle coaxing that unspooled the tight knot under her breastbone. He tipped her face up a little, and when his tongue coasted over the seam of her lips, she tilted her head back for more.

He thrust deep into her mouth, and she opened to him—the taste of him hit her like wallop, rich coffee, dark whisky, and a bite of icy gin. He tasted of sin and temptation. A needful moan broke from her lips, and he soothed it away with his tongue.

Somewhere in the far recesses of her mind, she registered that her first kiss was unlike anything she could have imagined. He tasted her as if he owned her, and his unapologetic possession sent a strange, singing sweetness through her blood.

Disoriented, she realized the tips of her breasts turned taut and throbbing. Liquid heat pooled between her thigh at the glimmer in his hazel eyes, under slashing brows. He caressed the nape of her neck… and then he was gone. A blast of cold air had her blinking in shock.

“Sweet,” he murmured, almost to himself. “You taste of sweet… innocence.”

What could she say to that ?

“Go home, little one,” he whispered in her ear. “But know this, the Beast of Brookhaven is forever in your debt. How far are you going?”

“Not— not far, only two streets away,” she admitted breathlessly.

“Hurry on now,” he smiled. “And you needn’t take such a strong grip on those shears in your pocket. You will be safe.”

Starlight and strains of fog swirling around her wrapped the dreamlike state she was in that much tighter. With the lamp high, she found her godmother’s door, the cheerful pop of yellow among the plain dull wood with ivy climbing the stone part of the walls. Surrounded by overgrown hedgerows and rose bushes, the cottage had a peaceful, tumbledown charm.

At the door, she paused to look over her shoulder. Nothing came from the shadows, but the back of her neck prickled as if unseen eyes were lingering on her. As she unlatched the door and stepped in, she turned and closed it, still without a single form emerging from the gloom.

Pressing her forehead on the cool wood, she sucked in a breath. Had that truly happened or had it been some sort of feverish dream? Touching her forehead, she felt no abnormal heat. No fever.

The cottage was neat as a pin, and walking past the modest parlor, which served dual purposes as dining and sitting room, she headed up a narrow staircase. Upstairs, where a thin wall separated the two sleeping quarters—and beyond both was a bathing room—she found her cot, rested the lamp down on the end table, and her knees gave out from under her.

Looking down at her trembling hands, she could still feel the sliver of scar under her forefinger and the heat of his palm around her wrist. She glanced at the window and down at the blooming hedgerows and vegetable garden—hoping and praying that the presence she had felt at the door had belonged to someone. But nothing, no one emerged from the darkness.

Her heart sank.

Still, even though disappointment reigned—the mysterious lord had been right. She had been safe coming home.

Maybe it hadn’t been a dream after all.

Four Days Later

“For Christ’s sake, Arlington,” a surly Colin Lightholder, Baron of Thornbury, huffed, nearly spilling his brandy, “Have you heard a word I have said all night?”

“You have eleven tenants who have mystically forgotten to pay their taxes, your prized phaeton has a broken wheel, the country house in Leeds that you have hoped to stage a hunting party is now infested with termites.

“Your parents are still hounding you to marry and this time they are set on making a match with the utterly repulsive Lady Carrington who does not speak a word of French and continues to ride astride like the tomboy we know she is—not to mention your new ball suits that are still not ready for the upcoming season,” William Hartwell, the Duke of Arlington, drawled, refraining from brushing a finger down his scar. “In that order, I believe.”

“Wiseacre,” Colin grunted.

“How did you manage to hear all that when it is clear your mind is ten leagues away,” Andrew Pembroke, the Viscount of Sutton, said knowingly.

Sipping his brandy, William gave his oldest friend a slanted look, “Must you always bear my true emotions to the rest of the world?”

“When it is clear that you are brooding over something, yes,” Andrew replied, utterly immune to William’s glares. Leaning in, he demanded, “What is troubling you?”

Before he answered, William pressed his lips tight and thought back to that night in the alley. First, he condemned himself for getting into that mix. In the name of discretion, he had taken pains—discreet hackney and all that—to warm a forlorn young widow’s bed in the countryside but had allowed his discretion to slip on the reverse journey.

Of course, someone had taken the opportunity to corner him and pay him his just desserts. What rubbed him the wrong way was that… they might have succeeded too if a young lady hadn’t materialized, seemingly out of nowhere.

“Five nights ago, I went to see Lady Madeline—”

Variations of aggrieved groans rose from the table; it was clear that neither of the two were in favor of William’s liaisons with the notorious widow, but William ignored them all—again, “However, on the way back, two henchmen from Lord Harcourt’s slums, poised as hackney drivers, managed to accost me.”

This time, the cries of grief became ones of outrage.

“Good God man,” Andrew shook his head. “How did that happen? Were you drunk?”

“Against all reason, I had one foot over the line, yes, but believe me, I got starkly sober very soon,” William toyed with the rim of his glass, sliding a long forefinger around its crystal edge. “They had almost gotten me until an unlikely aide came my way. A woman. Her scream made my training unfurl and I soon dispatched them to the ground, perhaps with a broken bone or two.”

“Ah,” Colin lifted his drink. “Good man. Do you know who this woman is?”

“No clue,” he shrugged. “But I kissed her and saw her home, in secret.”

“Oh, good god,” Andrew sighed, then waved to a waiter to refill his glass. When it was topped off, he took a mouthful and asked, “So you came from one rendezvous , almost got murdered and then kissed a strange woman and followed her to her home?”

“Yes.”

“And may I assume your distraction is because your mind is lingering on that woman?” Andrew pressed.

“Partly,” William nodded.

He remembered the moment the young Miss had entered the alley, how her skin glowed like porcelain in the moonlight, her small, neat features and uncommonly large doe eyes had possessed a delicate charm. She put him in mind of a painting of Daphne escaping Apollo.

The other two men shared a look before Colin asked, “Are we the only ones seeing the sticking pin in this matter? Clearly, you want to see this woman again and you know where she lives. Why not go and see her?”

“Because she is innocent and I do not dally with innocent Misses,” William’s words dropped like a judge’s gavel on its stone.

It was true. The young woman was the epitome of virtue. After his romp with Lady Madeline, he had not bothered tying his cravat, so his throat was bare above his collar and the faint musk of sex clung to his skin.

The young Miss had not picked up on the post-coital clues. In hindsight, he probably should not have kissed her when it was clear the young innocent miss did not know what carnal pleasure was. The moment his lips had touched hers was when he’d known that she'd never been kissed either.

A na?f in the best sense. I didn’t think women like those still existed.

It was why he had stopped the intimate embrace— well mostly because of her innocence, but secondly because the men were starting to wake— and in contrast to her purity, he’d suddenly felt... foul.

“I swear you might have forgotten the ordinary social graces,” Andrew sighed. “What is wrong with making a simple friendship?”

William’s hand tightened around the glass, but his face was still impassive. His mind flew back to the simple cottage the young woman had slipped inside and knew that even such a simple act would never be simple enough. What if word got out that the Duke of Arlington, the Beast of Brookhaven Castle, was friends with a peasant woman?

He could easily explain this to the two—but it felt like too much work, so he simply said, “No.”

It was enough that William was already under scrutiny as his title of Duke was simply that, a title, and until his uncle released his inheritance and lands, he had little power to work with.

He expected the two to contest his decision and push him to either reveal who the lady was or where she lived so they could intervene themselves, but Colin and Anthony only looked at each other.

“He is tempted, yes?”

“Very much.”

“How long will it take him to cave under the temptation?” Colin pressed.

“Ooh, a wager,” Andrew said giddily. “I give him two weeks, a hundred pounds.”

“Two hundred says three,” Colin replied.

Annoyed, William had the urge to swat at them as he would do a buzzing insect. “You will both fail.”

“No, I don’t think we will,” Andrew sat back in his seat, one arm slung around the back of the padded leather armchair. “Do you know why?”

“Please, enlighten me,” William narrowed his eyes.

“You’ve already gotten a taste of something you have never had before,” Andrew smirked. “You’ll go back to devour it, and nothing, not even your most laudable assertion of not following the temptation of innocent misses, will keep you from it, old boy.”

Instead of answering, William took a long, measured drink and then decisively turned the conversation to a safer topic, not because he didn’t have the mindset to debate with them on how wrong they were… but because secretly, he feared they might be right.

What would he do if he found that young woman again? Leave her be… or tempt her like the snake did with Eve?

Did it matter? Why was he even concerned for her? He had other problems to work through, first and foremost. He looked down at the paper on the table and the next name on the list, the third debt he needed to pay, Viscount Tollerman .

With a frustrated growl, he tossed back the rest of his brandy and got back to work.