Prologue

Lord Eggerton turned the card over and felt the blood rush from his head. Dizzy with it, he closed his eyes, praying to God the brandy was to blame for his poor eyesight. He could not have consigned his pride and joy, the light of his life, his daughter Georgiana, into the clutches of the ancient reprobate sitting across the gaming table from him.

"I believe this hand is mine." Viscount Trenchert gathered his winnings and pulled them toward him. Caressing the folded bit of foolscap on top of the pile, he licked his lips in anticipation. "I believe I shall enjoy living in your manor house in Sussex, adding the chit's dowry to my bank account…and plowing her virgin fields."

Eggerton surged to his feet. "You will never touch one hair on my daughter's head!"

Trenchert flicked an invisible speck of dust from his sleeve. "If you do not possess the skill at cards, you should not have wagered your homes nor your fortune," the viscount said, "nor your daughter's dowry and her hand in marriage to me."

"You must have put something in the brandy!"

Trenchert shook his head and glanced about the darkened room and the few gentlemen still gambling. "No talent at cards. No head for the finest French brandy. You are pathetic. Have my prize—your daughter—prepared to journey with me to my new home in Sussex tomorrow by teatime."

The thought of his lovely Georgiana married to the musty-smelling gargoyle sitting across from him scraped Eggerton's gut raw and had him surging to his feet. "She will not be going anywhere with you!"

Everything Eggerton valued in life was clutched in the man's hand. His heart sank when the other man curled the foolscap in his fist, snickered, and held up his hand, waving it in Eggerton's face. "You relinquished your rights in the matter." The old man rose from the table and, without a backward glance, in a voice that carried, barked, "Teatime tomorrow!"

Hot on his heels, Eggerton followed, grabbed Trenchert's arm, and shouted, "You cheated!"

Trenchert's expression darkened. "My seconds shall call upon you. Chalk Farm at dawn."

The blow of the man's final words cleared Eggerton's head. He staggered outside and signaled for his coach. He did not remember the short ride to Mayfair. Consumed with worry, he tried to devise a plan. What in the bloody hell would he say to his daughter? How could he explain that he'd been plied with heavy brandy and cheated? That was the only reason he had not won the hand where he confidently wagered their homes and fortune, her dowry, and her hand in marriage. Good God, he'd broken his promise to Georgiana that he'd never gamble again. She would never forgive him.

As the coach slowed to a stop outside his town house, Eggerton knew what he had to do. Head high, he stepped down from the carriage and yanked the door open, nearly plowing into his butler.

"Lock the door behind me and do not let anyone in!"

"Yes, your lordship."

He strode to the staircase, taking the steps two at a time, and shouted, "Georgiana!"

Her bedchamber door opened, and a vision of loveliness draped in her favorite forest-green dressing gown appeared, candle held high. "Papa? What has happened? What is wrong?"

He shook his head and motioned for her to follow him to his private study. The fire had been lit, anticipating his arrival, but the warmth did not penetrate the marrow frozen in his bones. "You shall never forgive me, but I beg you to understand…" His words failed him.

Astute as her mother had been, his daughter lost all expression. "You were gambling again, weren't you, Papa?"

"Aye, but it's not just coin that I lost tonight. Even if in your heart of hearts you should someday forgive me, I would not deserve it."

She set her candle on his desk, reached for his hands, and held tight. "Whatever economies we will have to make, I promise not to complain. We can send word to Madame Beaudoine that plans have changed and advise that I do not need the new ball gown."

He tugged his hands free. "You must pack a small portmanteau, and your jewels, and leave at once!"

"Leave? But why?"

"Your life is in danger, and by all that's holy, I am the bloody bastard who put you in his cross hairs!"

"Whose cross hairs? Tell me. Please?"

He raked a hand through his silver hair. "There is no time for explanations. Please trust me and someday…someway, I hope you forgive me."

And as her mother had done on many an occasion, she planted her feet firmly, met his gaze, and refused to budge. "Who is the blackguard, and why does he wish me harm?"

Anguish swept up from his toes as ice filled his veins. "Viscount Trenchert."

Her eyes widened, but instead of fear, he saw fire there. "Tell me you did not sit down at cards with him. He is a known cardsharp!"

He grabbed hold of her hand and tugged her through the door, then down the hall to her bedchamber. Opening the door, he motioned for her to precede him. He closed the door behind them. "Pack while I explain."

Finally, she obeyed and began tossing things into her portmanteau. "I'm listening."

"I've lost it all. The town house, our country estate, our fortune, your dowry"—his voice broke over the words—"and you."

She threw herself into his arms and hugged him tight. "You could never lose me, Papa. I love you. We have always had one another's backs ever since Mum passed. I won't leave you now."

Self-disgust twined with abject horror at what was in store for his daughter. He was reprehensible and had placed himself beyond the pale. He set her from him and confessed, "I've given your hand in marriage to Viscount Trenchert, along with the rest."

He would not tell her about his dawn appointment. Lord willing, the bloody bastard would die at his hand, and Georgiana would be safe. But he needed to know she was on her way to safety before he met the viscount on the field of honor.

While she stared open-mouthed at him, he added, "My carriage will be waiting out front. You must be dressed and ready to leave in a quarter of an hour!"

Before she could respond, he spun around and closed the door behind him. Events had been set in motion, and there was no time to alter them—or change his mind. He returned to his upstairs sitting room. Pulling the key from his waistcoat pocket, he unlocked the cabinet behind his desk and retrieved the mahogany box. Setting it on his desk, he lifted the lid and stared down at the dueling pistols. He had only used them once before. Though he took them out regularly to ensure they were well oiled and in working condition, he kept them locked away, never intending to use them again.

After checking both weapons, he returned them to the velvet-lined box, closed the lid, and prayed, "Dear Lord, if it be Your will that I die at dawn, I beg You to send a warrior strong enough to protect my daughter. Save her from that villainous viscount!"

Sixteen minutes later, he carried Georgiana's portmanteau downstairs and whisked her into his carriage. He instructed his coachman, "Do not let her out of your sight when you change horses!"

"Aye, your lordship. You have my word."

He buried his emotions deep, leaned into the coach, and pressed his lips to Georgiana's forehead. "If anything happens on the way to Eggerton Hall, find your way to Lippincott Manor."

"But Papa, I thought you and the earl had a falling-out over your gambling."

"Nevertheless, he will not deny my request…or you, Georgiana. Promise me!"

Her frown was fierce, but she acquiesced. "I promise."

"The earl will see to it his brother's guard will protect you."

"I don't see why the duke's guard would—"

He stepped back from the coach. "Drive on!"

The last thing his saw was his gregarious daughter leaning out of the coach window waving.

The last thing he heard was "I love you, Papa!"