Prologue

June 1820

Wedding breakfast of Viscount Flint and his new wife, London

"Men only have one thing on their minds, and it's not cake." –from The Masculine Inconvenience: Memoirs of a Superior Lady

F rom across the crowded room at his brother's wedding breakfast, Mr. Josiah Evans watched the heiress eat cake. He should not be watching her. That much he knew. Watching a woman eat cake simply felt… well, inappropriate at best, sinful at worst. Lips, tongue, fingers, sugar.

Damn.

The heiress eating cake should not have proved such a tempting image. With her grim mouth and hard eyes, she was not the sort of woman a fellow like Josiah watched. He much preferred women with sultry merriment in their eyes and seductive whispers on their lips.

No, the heiress was neither sultry nor merry, yet he could not look away from her. Not because Lady Georgiana Hunt was beautiful. Objectively, it could not be denied. Tall, statuesque, every curve exactly where fashion dictated it should be. Perhaps a little rounder than fashionable about the bust. She dressed elegantly so likely no one noticed. It was exactly the type of thing Josiah noticed, though. Couldn't help it. Her hair was abundant and honey colored. The best kind of color, really. It streaked toward amber in the candlelight and toward golden in the sunshine. Dark eyes, too, of some indeterminate shade between brown and black. But one did not have to know their exact color to know she was beautiful. Objective observation, that. And not why he watched her.

He watched her because for a fraction of a second, right after the fork slipped between her lips, that mouth transformed, softened, the corners tipping up. And in that fraction of a second— hell —he couldn't look away if the King ordered him to.

Was the cake that delicious? He had to know. He tore his gaze from her and found the cake along with the footman with the knife and plates, and he took a piece. He dug in, bringing the fork to his lips as he turned from the table and—"Ack!" He almost dropped the plate, cake, and all.

The heiress stood before him with her plate held firmly in her hands before her like a shield held horizontally. "You have been watching me all morning."

"Have I?"

"I demand you stop."

"Do you?"

Lady Georgiana pointed her fork at him. "Just because you are the brother of the groom and the new brother-in-law to my dearest friend does not mean I'll tolerate your antics."

He grinned, his fork still hovering. "Antics?"

"I do not tolerate fortune hunters—or fools, either."

"What else, or whom else, do you not tolerate?"

Her eyes narrowed. "Those who think they're clever. And. Are. Not."

"My. My, my, my." He parted his lips as he finally rested the cake on his tongue and hell—all the sugar of heaven exploded on his taste buds, just the perfect amount of lemon tartness, too. "That is good." He talked around the cake. "I hadn't planned on having any, but after watching you eat it up like it was some damn erotic delight—"

She gasped.

"I had to try." He took another bite, chewed, swallowed, and stabbed the cake once more. This time, he held it out to her. "Care for a bite of mine?" If looking at heiresses eating cake was unpardonable, offering to feed them was… well, he'd likely end up in the corner of hell reserved for rakes, no doubt. He took another bite of the damn delicious cake and winked at her, accepting his eternal fate.

Lady Georgiana's face turned to brittle glass. Then it shattered with a laugh, revealing something softer beneath the mask—rosy skin and real warmth. Huh. Perhaps this was why his brother Xavier's new wife, Sarah, liked this stony woman. She had a different self, hidden leagues beneath the guise she showed the world. He wanted to dig further, discover more. He shook the impulse away, though, because he had no time for such explorations. He was a new man with real purpose in life. Finally. He itched to leave London, actually. He'd only begun to learn the accounts at Apple Grove House, and he never would if he kept being pulled away because of family matters.

He flashed a look at the newly wedded couple—his older brother and the heiress's close friend, easy in each other's company, exchanging little touches—and felt the corner of his mouth lift. He didn't mind these little family events too much. Mother would, were she alive, have been beaming with pride, brimming with happiness. That made these delays in his work bearable.

So, apparently, did the sight of heiresses eating cake.

He pointed at her plate. "Go along. Finish it up. You know you want to."

She stopped laughing, sniffed, but cleaned the plate, and this time, she did not hide the smile that bloomed with each bite. Once empty of all but the tiniest crumbs, she placed the plate on the table and tilted her head, considering him.

"Well," he said, "After that study of my person, what is your estimation?"

She snatched a glass of bubbling champagne from beside the cake table. "I've heard about you."

"All good things, I hope."

She snorted. "All… carnal things. Things a bit naughty. Sarah says you've quite quit the ton to be your brother's steward."

"I shall be managing one of the family properties." Finally. What he'd always wanted. He'd been destined for the church from birth but had refused to make a testimonial to the bishop. At which point, his father had wanted to purchase him a commission. Only a strategic conversation with his dear papa, about all the reasons he should be allowed another year or two or three to cut a roguish swath of pleasure through the London ladies, had forestalled that violent direction of his life. His father celebrated all gentlemanly pursuits, including bedroom ones, and the old man had chuckled, slapped Josiah on the back, and agreed to a delay. And Josiah had enjoyed himself until Xavier had saved him, supporting his management of the estates so strongly, so their father had been forced to back down and drop the prospect of a military career for Josiah.

Older brothers were good for something, it seemed.

"Well?" She stabbed her fork toward him. "What have you to say for yourself?"

"Only that one day I plan to manage all my brother's estates. Better than anyone else could, mind you. He lifted his brows and squared his shoulders, waiting for the disapproving lecture sure to come.

But it never did. She gave a slight nod, a soft display of approval instead. "Fascinating. How, though, if you live in the country all your days, do you— ahem —make merry, as I've heard you're wont to do?"

Damn, but she was brazen. To speak of such things in a room inhabited by so many people. And her a virgin. Presumably. Perhaps she'd had too much to drink. Not that he disapproved. Her conversation bubbled through his veins like the champagne that likely loosened her tongue and conversational judgment.

He sighed, a dramatic heft of a sound. "It is difficult. Every day of denial is a blow to my immense control."

She narrowed her eyes. "But you do not seem as if you are struggling with the desire to toss me on the nearest settee and have your wicked way with me in front of all the wedding guests."

"I prefer to have my wicked way in private." Not a wink this time. A smolder.

Her lips parted slightly, as if his words had surprised her. "If you were not a man, I'd make a friend of you. Do you know how difficult it is to get plain speaking from men? From women, too, really. In truth, it does not seem to be a trait many possess. You do. I like that."

He leaned close, lowered his voice. "You mean men do not discuss erotic delights with you at Almack's?"

"I'm lucky if they discuss the weather. Men are fools."

"Where'd you hear that?"

"The Dowager Countess of Linborough, my aunt. She often says it. Always has. And I've learned it well through my own experiences."

"Yes, well, how can I argue with two such experts on the topic? Men are fools. And you do not tolerate those. Yes, I remember. Hm. A man-hater, are you?"

"Most decidedly."

"Then we cannot be friends. I'm sure it's for the best."

"Assuredly."

But they grinned at each other. Fools, indeed.

* * *

March 1821

Christening of Viscount and Viscountess Flint's daughter, London

Josiah held the soft, newly christened bundle of baby to his shoulder and watched Lady Georgiana dart about the room. A mouse cornered by a tomcat. The cat? Josiah didn't know his name, but he knew what the man was. A fortune hunter. A foolish one at that, one who did not know the mouse he cornered was actually one of those big cats, sleek and dangerous, that lived in jungles. No tame British puss, Lady Georgiana Hunt.

Lady Georgiana whirled around with narrowed eyes and hands fisting her skirts. Nowhere else to go, trapped between a precariously thin table with a large urn atop it, the wall, and an ever-approaching scoundrel.

Josiah growled. He hated seeing any woman trapped. Boiled his insides. But more, if Lady Georgiana let her lethal claws slash out, little Bea's christening party might be ruined. Xavier, the proud papa, would be enraged. Sarah, the doting mama, would be saddened, and Lady Georgiana would feel guilty for mauling a guest on such an occasion. None of it good. He could save them all from that future. So he rubbed little Bea's backside, nuzzled the thatch of wispy red hair protruding from the front of the lacy cap covering her head, and strode across the room. Perhaps he should hand her off to someone not stalking prey, but he'd only just gotten hold of her, and she'd only just fallen asleep. He'd not let a scoundrel ruin her nap. Or Josiah's cuddles.

Lady Georgiana saw them coming, and her shoulders relaxed. Her hands fell out of their fists.

Josiah tapped the other man on the shoulder. "Who are you?"

The man swung around and tilted his head back. "I am Mr. Hobbes, your brother Crawford's chum."

Ah. No wonder. Crawford would invite a scoundrel.

"Perhaps then," Josiah said, "you should seek out conversation with my brother. I should have a conversation with my brother." Only family, Sarah had said, was to be invited. And friends as good as family. Not Mr. Hobbes.

Mr. Hobbes scowled, casting a glance at Lady Georgiana. "I've no reason to abandon my conversation with the lovely Lady—"

"But she seems to want to abandon conversation with you." Josiah gave the man the type of stare he usually reserved for business dealings and drunken tenants who thought they could harm those weaker than themselves.

"Mr. Evans." Lady Georgiana's gaze had shifted from relief to irritation like a cold snap at the end of autumn. "I do not require others to speak for me."

Mr. Hobbes pressed closer to Lady Georgiana. "And I was not done with our discussion."

Her shoulders stiffened again, becoming the stout, broken branches of an old oak tree. "I was."

"I don't think you know your own mind, my lady," Mr. Hobbes said, oil dripping from every word.

Lord. She'd punch him.

"What would be palatable to me, Mr. Hobbes," she said, without punching him, "is the immediate removal of your person from my presence."

That Josiah could do. Happily.

"That's our cue." Josiah gently tapped the nose hidden in the bundled blankets he bounced in his arms. "Time to intervene."

"We do not need your interference," Mr. Hobbes insisted, casting a glare over his shoulder.

"Not your decision to make, Mr. Hobbes. And shhh ." Josiah glared. "You'll wake little Beatrice."

The other man set his jaw. "Lady Georgiana, I would like permission to call on you tomorrow."

"No." A rejection like a slammed door.

"I'll not be discouraged."

"Is this fellow serious?" Josiah asked Beatrice. He sighed. Time to employ a cannon blast. He held the baby tight to his shoulder with one hand and stepped between Mr. Hobbes and Lady Georgiana. They had been so close that stepping between them put Josiah's back a breath away from her front. Where her hands fluttered at her belly, they also fluttered at his spine, occasionally touching, sending tendrils of sensation through him he stoutly ignored. Such an innocent touch. Likely only roused him because he'd been oddly chaste the last few months. No time or energy for mistresses while running Apple Grove.

Her fingertips lightly rested on his shoulder. "I do not need a protector, Mr. Evans."

"And yet you have one." He barely kept the growl from his voice. He stepped to the side and back until he stood shoulder to shoulder with her. He angled a smile at her and her alone, the tingle of her touch still zipping through his body. "I take particular offense at any man's pursuit of this woman."

She paled, then blushed, her eyelids fluttering as her gaze darted about, landing anywhere, it seemed, but on him. He'd never seen her blush before, this ice statue of a woman. It didn't melt her, but it melted something in him.

Mr. Hobbes cleared his throat, but she did not look away from Josiah, and that felt like victory. Better. Mr. Hobbes made another such noise.

"Are you parched, Hobbes?" Josiah asked, never looking from her. "There's wine about. Champagne, too. Go get some."

"Blast," Mr. Hobbes said, but he turned and left.

Lady Georgiana cocked her head to the side and studied him. "I believe you just insinuated you have an interest in me, Mr. Evans."

"I'm afraid so."

"People might think you're courting me."

"Let them. Perhaps they'll leave you alone, then." He pulled the baby from his shoulder to cradle her in his arms.

"You're willing to make such sacrifices?"

"I've no plans to marry."

"Hollow words from a man who speaks them while grinning into a baby's face."

"I've no time to take a wife or set up a nursery."

"Ah. The steward—ah. Apologies. I mean, estate manager business." She grinned, a tiny fledgling thing. "Not all men, I see, are pigs."

Josiah shrugged. "Give me time. I'll oink soon enough."

She grunted a laugh and looked into the bundle of blankets. "Hello, Bea. Thank you as well. We women must look out for one another."

A true statement that needed amendment as well. She clearly needed someone, anyone, to look out for her. He'd never once seen her aunt, and she seemed to have no men folk to protect her. A damn shame. A crime.

"You could marry, Lady Georgiana. Then those fortune hunters have no prey." And she'd have a husband to keep her safe.

"I've often considered the idea. It's a sound one, of course. Logical. The problem is finding a man who isn't after my fortune and who is…" She looked away from him, a blush stealing over her cheeks again. "Acceptable to look at. Mr. Hobbes is handsome."

He scowled.

She cringed. "Still… something about him makes me shiver a bit. And not in a good way. Aunt Prudence always says if my gut makes me question a man, it's not indigestion."

He relaxed and gave baby Beatrice a little squeeze. "Excellent advice. But—"

"She's ill."

How to respond to such an abrupt statement? "I am sorry. I'm sure she'll recover."

"Mm. She's approaching eighty." She waved her hand and snapped her head to the side, her gaze roaming across the crowd. "Tis no worry. As you say, she'll recover. And I'll not marry."

An independent woman like her would not be easily swayed. Yet the thought of her alone, no one to protect her, rippled goosebumps across his skin. Who would fight off those fortune hunters? She clearly needed a husband. Or something like. A champion perhaps.

"Make use of me."

She raised a brow. "And what does that mean? Do not think I'm unaware of the inappropriate innuendo in those words?"

He waggled his eyebrows. "I've already insinuated we have an understanding, so you should make use of it. Let the idea linger in everyone's minds. They'll leave you alone soon enough. Won't be a lie either. We will have an understanding. Just not the one everyone assumes."

"An understanding." She chewed the word over thoughtfully. "An understanding that neither of us will ever wed, but—"

"We'll hint to everyone that we mean to marry one another."

She stiffened. "I do so dislike being interrupted, Mr. Evans."

"But do you like fortune hunters? You can be rid of them if we have—"

"An understanding. Hm. What do you gain?"

"You are in luck that I do not mind being interrupted, as you do, Lady Georgiana. What do I gain? Nothing really. But I lose nothing from it either."

"You're too busy for a wife. Yes. I remember."

"And there is another benefit for you. I will be at Apple Grove most of the time. When I'm in Town for some reason, I'll pay you a visit, walk with you in Hyde Park, shape the illusion. But otherwise, you are free to do as you please. With the protection of our implied courtship. I can even cast a few menacing looks at other men when necessary."

"It's not a horrid idea. Very well then." She nodded at Josiah's shoulder. "Bea is drooling on you."

Josiah held a finger to his lips and made a shushing sound. "She's asleep."

"No one will believe we're interested in one another. We've nothing in common. You're running an estate and prefer the country."

"And you're an heiress with a taste for London life. But"—he grinned—"I do like cake."

She grinned back. "And I like babies."

"A perfect friendship, then. A perfect partnership." The words felt true. The words felt right. Easy enough to let the world think he wooed Lady Georgiana and be able to protect her from fortune hunters in the process. His mother, God rest her soul, would approve.

They bent their heads together over Beatrice and cooed.