Prologue

July 1798

F ew sentences beginning with the words I dare you ever led to a course of action that was sensible and wise, and this was proving no exception.

With a frown, Miss Phoebe Windham wriggled her foot until her slipper came free from the patch of mud she’d carelessly trod upon, flicking away sludgy brown drops. That brief obstacle behind her, she hiked up her skirts, sparing her hem further abuse as she continued traipsing through the wood.

No , not sensible and wise at all. However , she didn’t intend to let that stop her. Not on an afternoon such as this, when the sun blazed high in the sky, casting muggy heat over her surroundings.

She’d tried to keep herself occupied with worthwhile pursuits during the earlier part of the day. Writing a few letters. Practicing the pianoforte. Mending a pair of stockings. Yet as the air in the vicarage had grown more oppressive, leaving her aunt and uncle fanning themselves listlessly in the sitting room and the younger children scattering to places unknown, she and her eldest cousin, Clara , had become idle. A situation that tended to lead to frivolity.

Like her, Clara was a girl of eighteen, eager to have a companion in a place that could prove, as she claimed, exceptionally dull. Phoebe couldn’t abide dullness, either. A lack of occupation gave her too much time to think about all she’d lost. Of how much her circumstances had changed.

And so, she and Clara had begun playing a game. Something to take away the worst of the tedium. I dare you … The phrase they took turns uttering, watching with a mixture of awe and amusement as they each performed the tasks assigned by the other. I dare you to climb to the top of the apple tree. I dare you to sneak the bottle of currant wine out of the kitchen .

The latest challenge of Clara’s invention, though, was in a class of its own. I dare you to go to Beaumont Manor and swim in Lord Rockliffe’s lake.

Phoebe quickened her pace, keeping her eyes to the ground so she didn’t have another puddle mishap—for it seemed the blistering sun hadn’t yet managed to dry up the remnants of yesterday’s rain in places such as this, where the thick tree canopy provided ample shade. It didn’t help that the area had no proper path, only a topsy-turvy mixture of roots and underbrush. Then again, why would there be anything more? People likely had little cause to come this way, to the far corners of the Rockliffe estate. Likewise , she and Clara shouldn’t be here, either. They were trespassers.

But whatever trepidation that knowledge caused, she tried to push it away as she kept up her steady footsteps, Clara right behind her. The challenge had been issued, and she refused to forfeit in favor of returning to boredom and overbearing sultriness at the vicarage.

“ I think … I think we’re almost there,” Clara huffed after a period where the lone sound that passed between them was the rustle of their feet against leaves and grass.

Phoebe turned to glance at her red-cheeked cousin, then diverted her gaze in the direction of Clara’s finger, which pointed straight ahead. Sure enough, the oak trees seemed to be thinning, and beyond the sturdy trunks were glimpses of manicured grass and a hint of glimmering water.

The lengthy walk in such weather had left her just as winded as Clara , with beads of perspiration dampening her hair and coating her skin. Yet the sight beyond the trees beckoned, giving her a sudden burst of energy, and she dashed forward, leaving the panting Clara behind.

All at once, she reached the edge of the clearing and pressed her palm to the tree trunk behind her for support, letting out a short gasp. Prior to this point, Beaumont Manor —home of the elusive and supposedly cantankerous Marquess of Rockliffe —had been nothing more than a stately house in the distance, visible when her walks led her up the hill just outside the village. Now , she was immersed in the heart of it, standing atop a slope that traveled down to a sprawling lake of crystalline blue. To the side of the shore closest to her stood a Doric temple, crafted of the same pale stone as the house, and across from that, on the opposite end of the lake, was a footbridge, leading up to a vast lawn. The expanse of lush grass, dotted with shrubs, hedges, and more towering trees, eventually reached the house’s massive terrace, where the marquess himself could stand and survey the majesty of the land he owned.

That had been her first protest when Clara issued the challenge. I cannot. What if someone looks out and catches me ? A possibility that seemed even more likely now that she’d laid eyes on the back side of Beaumont Manor , with its rows of gleaming, full-length windows to give its occupants a perfect view of the lake.

However , Clara had dismissed her worries, assuring her that the family hadn’t yet returned from their Season in London . Which Phoebe knew for a fact wasn’t entirely true. Perhaps the incident from last week hadn’t made an impression on Clara , but for Phoebe , it was a different story.

She pushed a damp strand of hair off her forehead, reliving the memory yet again. The thundering hooves that had come up behind them as she and Clara strolled into the village early one morning. The magnificent black gelding kicking up piles of dust as it raced past. And the rider atop him, clad in matching black, with powerful thighs that held tight to the horse’s flanks and strong, commanding arms that flicked the reins.

That’s the marquess , Clara had hissed excitedly in her ear as the dusty clouds settled around them, leaving Phoebe blinking in surprise at the figure who was already halfway up the road. When Clara had described the dour Marquess of Rockliffe after Phoebe first arrived in Bowden , she supposed she’d pictured—well, not that . Not someone large and athletic, whose flash of chiseled features contained vestiges of youth.

She’d tried—unsuccessfully, if she were being honest—to put the incident, and the spark it ignited low in her belly, out of her mind, until Clara’s dare had warranted speaking of it again. But once more, Clara had met her with assurances. Oh , the marquess is long gone. It’s rare he visits Beaumont Manor at all, and while perhaps some estate business required his attention, I believe he only stayed for a day or two before going back to London . Papa himself said that he left last week .

And so, Phoebe had begun the trek to Beaumont Manor , out of protests but replete with apprehension that refused to dissolve. However , a challenge was a challenge, and after all her long, somber days, she couldn’t deny that a little thrill also went along with it.

Before she could think on the matter any longer, she pulled her feet out of her mud-caked slippers, letting her stockings sink into the grass. The sensation was blissful, the green blades soft and warm upon her heels, creating a slight tickling sensation. It was nothing, though, compared to how it would feel to jump into the crystal water. To have coolness envelope her overheated body, to float upon its surface as the sun beat down on her.

She reached to her back, fumbling to find the tapes of her hated black bombazine gown. Shedding the stiff, thick garment would be a relief in itself, and when she combined that with a plunge into the lake—heaven. She surveyed the landscape once more, and for the first time, the thrill of what she was doing outweighed the trepidation. If she walked a little more, down to where the lake curved outward and clusters of trees lined the shore, she would be concealed from view even if there did happen to be servants going about the house. In fact, it would be nearly like having her own private swimming area, and maybe she could even entice Clara to jump in with her?—

Water erupted from the center of the lake, and an arm broke through the perfect glassy surface.

An arm, and a head, and then another arm, and she stumbled backward, clamping her mouth closed just in time to suppress a shriek. Her hand flew to her bodice, grasping it before the loosened gown had a chance to puddle to the ground. If she had any sense whatsoever, she would grab her slippers and begin a hasty sprint to the safety of the wood.

She didn’t do that, though. She was frozen, watching the body—the very male body—glide through the water. Watching as strong arms propelled him toward the opposite shore, and beads of water sparkled against his sun-bronzed skin like diamonds. His head went below the surface, the depths of the lake swallowing him once more. But by that point, she already knew what she’d seen. The sun had caught his drenched hair, making the darkened mass shine with hints of bronze. The same color she’d detected as the man on horseback went galloping by, and the morning light had made the hair beneath his top hat blaze.

Clara was wrong. The Marquess of Rockliffe remained very much in residence.

Grass rustled behind her, and she put up a hand, warning Clara not to come any closer. Neither of them could afford to risk making even the slightest noise until … until … Lord , what was she still doing here? Why hadn’t she run from the start?

She spared a glance for her discarded slippers upon the ground, calculating the time it would take to grab them and disappear back into the trees. Three seconds? Five seconds? Fast enough that the marquess would still be underwater, none the wiser?—

Water splashed up again, this time beside the shore, and the marquess’s head and bare shoulders emerged from the lake. Phoebe’s breath caught, her heart thundering within her chest. And still, she couldn’t move.

Observing him in the seconds-long encounter on the side of the road had been one thing. However , as much as that incident had left her with an unbalanced, fluttery feeling, it couldn’t compare to the fire running through her veins from seeing him in the lake. His untamed hair glistened, pouring rivulets down the back of his neck, and his muscles, previously just suggested by his tight riding coat, were on full display. He was rising, beginning to pull himself onto the shore?—

Where it became apparent he didn’t have on a stitch of clothing.

Her cheeks flamed, and while she’d spent the whole day feeling overheated, her body now seemed on the verge of combustion. This was absurd, terrible, so wrong … thrilling ?—

The marquess paused in his ascent, and his head whipped around, sending a shower of droplets back into the lake. Even from a distance, she could tell he was squinting against the blinding sunrays. Until all at once, his eyes widened. Locked with hers.

Whatever spell had transfixed her promptly shattered, and though her heart seized, she managed to dip to the ground and snatch up her slippers before bursting back into the trees.

“ Wh —?”

Clara formed the beginning of a word, but by that point, Phoebe was grasping her arm, dragging her along as she sprinted through the dense oak wood. She ran with abandon until her lungs ached and one of her stockings ripped across the sole. Only when they reached the meadow bordering the road back to the village—and were safely away from the Rockliffe estate—did she allow herself to collapse into the tall grass, her chest heaving with exertion.

Clara sank down beside her, fighting to catch her breath. Not saying anything but staring, her face contorted with utter perplexity.

“ He was there,” Phoebe finally managed to choke out once her inhales and exhales became less ragged. “ The marquess. In the lake .”

“ The marquess …” Clara’s voice died out, and suddenly, her bewilderment turned to a look of horrified recognition. “ Oh , Phoebe , I am so sorry. I don’t know how that could have happened, truly.”

Phoebe felt her brow shoot up, and she fixed her cousin with a cutting glare. Why had she thought listening to Clara was a good idea? Not that I regret what I saw …

The redness in Clara’s cheeks spread to her ears, and she rushed to take a few more stuttering breaths. “ Like I told you, Papa said he left; I’m certain of it. I really didn’t think there was any chance he’d come back. Not until the Season ended and he had the marchioness and the rest of his family with him, at least. Even then, it was doubtful, for there are rumors that he and Lady Rockliffe are estranged …”

Clara continued to talk, but Phoebe could no longer absorb the words. Not after marchioness . Her head spun. Her chest felt like it might explode. And still, a few lingering twinges—drat them, anyway—tugged at the apex of her thighs.

What a little fool she was. Lusting after a man who belonged to someone else. Whom she could never have even if he didn’t.

She staggered to her feet, reaching for the fastenings at the back of her dress so she could secure the respectable high-necked bodice back into place. “ I forfeit.” That probably went without saying, but best she make it very clear. “ Give me whatever punishment you see fit. Cover my face in soot if it pleases you, but I forfeit.”

She crammed her foot, torn stocking and all, into her muddy slipper, glancing around her to seek out the other one?—

It wasn’t there. Blast , blast, blast , she must have dropped it somewhere between here and the wood at Beaumont Manor . In her haste, maybe she hadn’t picked it up in the first place.

Well , that wasn’t going to stop her now. Squaring her shoulders, she marched over the grass toward the road, ignoring the fatigued ache in her legs. The sooner they got home, the better. If she had any bit of luck left on her side, the day’s heat would keep everyone they knew indoors, and Aunt Harriet and Uncle Martin would be too weary to take notice when she and Clara crept through the back door of the vicarage. For how was she to explain how she’d gotten herself in such a state?

“ It’s my turn,” she said when Clara , still breathing heavily, caught up to her, fighting to match her strides. “ I dare you to … to write an anonymous love letter to Matthew Wilkinson .”

“ Phoebe , really!” Clara’s already flushed cheeks reddened further, and she let out a giggle. “ But I suppose a dare is a dare.”

Good . Her challenge had hit the mark. Phoebe allowed herself to slow long enough to emit a near-silent sigh of relief. Clara had done no end of talking about Mr . Wilkinson , a visiting solicitor’s apprentice, after she’d encountered him at the assembly hall several days prior. Finding the proper words to write him would take the rest of the day if not longer. Long enough that today’s incident would be firmly out of mind, and they would never have cause to speak of it again.

That’s where Phoebe needed it. Away from Clara’s head and, especially, away from her own. No more images of broad shoulders, muscular arms, a dripping torso?—

No more .

Her slipper may have remained by the lake. The rest of her needed to move along and not look back.