Chapter One

1815 London…

Q uinton slowly flexed his hands, relieved the torn skin on his abraded palms had healed well enough to leave the bandages off, though that was the very least of his worries. Topping the list was the lack of summons from Mrs. Dove-Lyon after he had failed to win the competition against Edmund Broadbank. Tugging on his sleeve, he adjusted the cuff of his cambric shirt, ignoring the discomfort when it brushed against the healing skin.

Relief filled him when the invitation to the highly anticipated—touted to be scandalous—ball had been anonymously hand-delivered. Everyone who received the golden ticket knew it had been with the express approval of the Black Widow of Whitehall. He planned to make the most of his attendance at her annual mystère masque. His future depended upon it.

A glance at those gathered in the main gambling room had him wondering if female attendees planned to attract undue attention to themselves with overly imaginative and suggestive costumes. There had been rumors that courtesans and opera singers would be in attendance. While it would be easier to converse with one of the rumored beauties, he'd best avoid the distraction. He had become adept at avoiding females of marriageable age recently.

He scanned the room and noted a few of the male attendees were dressed as if they had traveled from ancient Rome—a look best worn by those with a physique that leaned toward muscular rather than portly. Wondering who advised the men to wear a toga, he looked at a handful of men dressed as if they were in a Shakespearean play. Having never enjoyed attending a masked ball, he had decided a mask was sufficient and dressed in black evening wear. He had no need to further disguise himself, had no time for a dalliance. He was here to achieve his goal to find a woman to marry as quickly as possible.

One of Mrs. Dove-Lyon's wolves made his way through the crowd, his bearing indicative of years serving in the military. Quinton recognized Titan from his previous visit. He wanted to ask what regiment the man had served in, but did not want to take him away from his duties. It was obvious the wolf had suffered an injury that rendered his one hand all but useless.

Useless. His mind replayed the events that had occurred recently. Broadbank had bested him in a challenge he had never anticipated—two ropes dangling from the ceiling. In hindsight, Quinton knew the Black Widow of Whitehall had somehow unearthed his greatest fear—heights. Thought he doubted the widow knew about his leg, and she would not find out until he chose to tell her. Though he had been nauseated and sweating profusely facing the challenge, he had swallowed the bile rising in his throat and had made it three-quarters of the way up the rope. Broadbank had beaten him to it and slapped his hand on the ceiling, leaving his bloody handprint behind as proof he was the victor.

The sounds of revelry increased. Harsh feminine voices, mixed with deep undertones of their male counterparts, broke through thoughts of his failure. Quinton scanned the masked occupants with the hope that he would find a likely candidate to consider. Beauty was not essential, although an agreeable personality and lack of artifice would be something to bear in mind. It would be a boon to find a woman who loved horses, willing to work alongside him to achieve his dream of breeding them. Mayhap if he used his powers of persuasion, calling on the famed charm he had had before that last sea battle, he would have a bride by night's end.

The sound of something heavy crashing, and wood splintering, snapped something inside of him…taking him back to the moment he was lying on the middle gun deck trapped beneath that thirty-two-pounder gun. His fingers ached as he tried to push the impossibly heavy gun off his leg, but his strength was ebbing. Someone bumped into him. He blinked, and the nightmare receded. He was in the main gambling room in the Lyon's Den.

The deep rumble of Mrs. Dove-Lyon's wolves handling whatever caused the incident washed over him, anchoring him to the present. With his steely control back in place, he shoved the memory deep.

High-pitched, grating feminine laughter caught his attention. Turning toward the sound, Quinton saw a pair of statuesque, platinum-haired beauties closing in on a man who stood head and shoulders above the crowd. Watching the way the man evaded the pair reminded him of the intensity in Broadbank's gaze when he had turned to congratulate him. Broadbank must have observed his hesitance to climb. Without intending to, Quinton had gained Broadbank's respect that day.

It was unfortunate he had not gained enough of Mrs. Dove-Lyon's to warrant her putting him ahead of those already seeking her assistance. Mayhap the invitation to tonight's entertainment had been her way of granting him a second chance in the Lyon's Den. The need to prove himself worthy had him fisting his hands at his sides. He quickly relaxed them. No need to have anyone think he was spoiling for a fight. Far from it. He planned for the evening to end with a proposal, and acceptance from one of the women present. Leaving tonight without a bride was not an option!

The raucous crowd seemed to quiet briefly as murmurs whispered through the throng. Quinton turned toward the entrance to the main room. Two women wearing velvet dominos the color of midnight entered the room. More than one man's interest had been captured as the pair slipped off their cloaks. Their identical gowns were pale blue in a design he recognized as one his former fiancée favored when attending a costume ball— à la Grecian , completely baring one shoulder before falling into an elegant drape that showed off a woman's curves. Their costumes left nothing to the imagination, except what lay hidden behind their crystal-lined masks.

Though the chestnut-haired woman was comely, he felt compelled to get closer to the willowy beauty with strands of fire in her dark hair. Intent on speaking to her, he shoved his way through the crowd as the women turned and headed toward the gardens. A man surged through the crowd and grabbed hold of the curvaceous, chestnut-haired woman, dragging her with him into the garden. Quinton rushed forward to help, but another leapt into action, freed the woman, and scooped her into his arms. Mrs. Dove-Lyon's wolves took control of the situation and the blackguard who had stepped over the line.

Quinton studied the man to judge his intent, prepared to offer assistance, if need be. The hint of a scar above, and below, the heroic man's mask was the mark of a dragoon injured in battle. The woman showed no sign of fear—in fact, she smiled, seeming to know her rescuer. Satisfied the woman was in good hands, Quinton turned in time to see the woman who had captured his interest backing away from a plump man dressed as a medieval lord in an ill-fitting tunic and hose. When the man roughly grabbed her arm, Quinton saw red and shouted, "Unhand her at once!"

The man swiveled and sneered, "After I have a sample of what she is boldly showing—"

The rest of his words were cut off by Quinton's fist. Stepping over the man, he held out his arm to the beauty who stood trembling, eyes wide in recognition. She must have him confused with someone else. He would remember if he had ever met the lovely woman before.

"Allow me to offer my assistance," he said. She bit her lip, and her expression swiftly changed from hopeful to despairing. Whoever she thought he was, he had disappointed her by not recognizing her. "And my protection."

She finally placed her hand on his forearm. "Thank you."

Titan moved toward them through the crowd. Locking gazes with Quinton, he said, "You are in luck."

Quinton paused. "How so?"

"The rules of the mystère masque are somewhat more lenient than what normally occurs. Otherwise, I would be escorting you out along with this one." The wolf hefted the unconscious man over his shoulder and nodded to the woman. "If I were you, miss, I'd not venture too far from this gentleman's side."

She sidled closer, and Quinton inhaled the delicate scent of rain-washed heather. It had been his mother's favorite fragrance. She replied, "Thank you for the warning."

Her husky voice had him calling on his considerable control to appear unaffected as she spoke to Mrs. Dove-Lyon's head of security. He had found the woman he would make an offer to!

"And your concern, Mr.…?"

"Titan, miss."

"Thank you, Mr. Titan."

"Just Titan." The wolf bowed and melted into the crowd with his burden.

Quinton placed his hand over hers where it rested on his arm, calling her attention back to him. "If you are looking for your friend, the man wearing a hunting plaid carried her off."

And just like that, her expression changed, as concern for her friend washed over her. "Where did they go? I need to find her—did you say hunting plaid?"

He nodded. "From the way he held her, and the look of adoration on her face, I believe she is in good hands."

"She is. Thank you for rescuing me, Mr.…?"

The sound of her voice mesmerized him. Drawn to her, he allowed himself a moment to let the rich tone flow over him before answering, "Quinton."

"As my friend is in excellent hands, Mr. Quinton, I believe it is time for me to leave."

He frowned. "You just arrived."

She shrugged, and his eyes followed the elegant lift of her creamy, exposed shoulder. Would it feel soft as a cloud, or smooth as satin?

He had not realized he was staring until she shivered. Unsure if she was chilled or if his scrutiny made her uneasy, he removed his frockcoat and slipped it around her shoulders.

Soft brown eyes warmed by degrees as she drew the garment around her. Did she feel the pull between them? Hoping he was not alone in this instant attraction, he asked, "Why are you leaving before you've had a chance to dance with me? Did you not come seeking a husband?"

Her cheeks flushed a delicate pink as she stared at her feet. "I, erm… Tonight was not about me, although I thought I had recognized someone. Mayhap I was mistaken. I have stayed longer than I intended." She met his gaze, and the clash of emotions in the depths of eyes the color of melted chocolate was briefly hidden when she lowered her lashes. "You see, the plan was…" She trailed off.

Intrigued, he asked, "Plan?"

She stared at him boldly, defiantly, as if she knew she should not be at the notorious event without an escort. "Yes. Plan. Eglantine and I would never have attended without one." She pressed her lips together, as if she realized she had revealed too much. "Thank you again for your assistance. My aunt will worry if I am not home within the hour."

Quinton stared at her, but she did not flinch under the intensity of his gaze. Surprised by the combination of regret and longing in her eyes, he expected her to say more. Instead, she turned abruptly and walked over to the wolf who had removed her cloak. She slipped the frockcoat from around her shoulders, spoke in low tones, and nodded in Quinton's direction.

He had nearly reached her side when a deep voice rasped, "Come with me."

Recognizing Titan's voice, he did not bother to turn around. "I cannot let her leave before I find out her name!"

"Ah, but that would go against the point of the masked ball."

Quinton did not give a bloody damn.

"Mrs. Dove-Lyon wishes a word with you, your lordship."

So, the wolf had recognized him too, and knew of his recent elevation as a member of the ton . Quinton had no intention of letting the wolf stop him, but hesitated when Titan clamped a hand on his shoulder. Though he knew he could easily slip out of the wolf's grip, he could not afford to cause a scene in the Lyon's Den.

He forced himself to relax. Titan eased his grip, allowing him to accept the return of his coat from the other wolf and don it. Titan did not bother to look over his shoulder—the wolf expected Quinton to follow him. He wondered what was so urgent that Mrs. Dove-Lyon wanted to speak to him privately during the ball. He was about to find out.

"Ah, Quinton," she purred as Titan stood back so he could enter the room. "Are you ready to enter the competition for the hand of another eligible young miss?"

"No."

She turned, and he imagined her veiled gaze riveted to his. "I beg your pardon?"

"Not unless she has warm brown eyes, and dark hair with strands of fire through it."

"I think you misunderstood my rules, Quinton. This is my establishment—you are not in any position to make demands."

"I beg to differ, Mrs. Dove-Lyon. As I understand it, you make a tidy sum matching hoydens, hellions, bluestockings, and young women whose questionable reputations precede them." He wished he could see past the black veil obscuring her features from him. Her eyes would give away her thoughts. When she remained silent, he continued, "I need to know the name—"

"Titan!"

The door opened immediately, and the former military man stood at attention.

"Show Quinton out."

His blood began to boil. "What about my second chance?"

"You just forfeited that chance."

He may have to accept being ejected from the ball, but he would not be deterred. "I need to know the woman's name."

She ignored him and nodded to Titan, who extended his hand toward the open door. Shoving his anger aside, Quinton pretended that he had not just been summarily dismissed from the Black Widow of Whitehall's presence. Though he was new to the title, he remembered his father, and brother, receiving the utmost respect while they held the title. His father insisted respect was not granted…it was earned. He needed to earn the respect of the proprietress if he were to return.

He bowed to her and quietly followed Titan through the throng gathered on the gambling floor to the doorway leading to the rear entrance.

The wolf paused when they stepped into the hallway. "Thank you for respecting Mrs. Dove-Lyon's wishes. No one else who has been ejected—or forfeited their opportunity—has ever acted with such civility before."

"I was raised to be a gentleman," Quinton grumbled.

The other man snorted. "Grated that you had to swallow your pride and accept her decision, didn't it?"

Quinton shrugged. "I have had to swallow my pride a time or two. What makes you think I accepted her decision?"

"You left without a fight."

Quinton had no intention of adding to his banishment by starting a fight with the widow's head of security. "It'll take me a few hours to come up with a foolproof plan, but know this, Titan—I will be back at Mrs. Dove-Lyon's invitation."

"What about the lass? Do you intend to let another man win her hand?"

He held the wolf's gaze and promised, "I will marry her!"

For a moment the other man was silent. Quinton did not give a bloody damn what the wolf thought. His heart would not be denied. The brave and lovely woman with the soft brown eyes would be his wife.

Finally, Titan said, "I look forward to watching you battle for her hand."

Neither spoke again, which suited Quinton. With a nod to the wolf stationed at the rear door, he left. He had plans to make.

On the sidewalk, he hailed his carriage and fell into deep thought on the ride to his town house. When his butler helped remove his frockcoat, he was assailed by a hint of rain-washed heather and the image of the beautiful woman who had captured his interest and his heart.

It was time to call in the favor Broadbank promised when last they spoke.