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Chapter One

Moonstone Landing

Cornwall, England

July 1831

“Look, Uncle Cormac,” Lady Imogen Stockwell said with a gasp as their carriage approached Woodley Lodge, the once-abandoned manor house overlooking the pirate caves near Moonstone Landing. “I never imagined it could be so beautifully restored.”

“It is a travesty, that’s what it is,” her uncle grumbled, but he was staring down at his costume and not referring to the elegant estate that had been brought back to its magnificent splendor by the new owner.

Imogen wondered whether the man dressed as a pirate standing with his arms crossed over his chest and arrogantly poised on the front steps was the mysterious Earl of Woodley.

He certainly appeared to be in command.

Her uncle, the Marquess of Burness, was still staring in disgust at his own costume, which Imogen thought suited him perfectly. He was dressed as Hades, god of the underworld, and her Aunt Phoebe was garbed as the lovely Persephone.

“What man in his right mind holds a masquerade ball to introduce himself to his neighbors? How are we to bloody get to know Lord Woodley and his family if we are all wearing masks?”

“Cormac, your language!” But Imogen’s aunt chuckled at his remark, which only made him scowl harder before continuing his complaints.

“And what idiot husband agrees to his wife’s choice of costume for himself?”

Phoebe leaned over and kissed his cheek. “The best sort of husband, my love. You will survive the ordeal with your typical manly fortitude. Besides, I am certain my sisters and their husbands will look equally ridiculous.”

He kissed his wife back. “Is that supposed to make me feel better?”

“Yes, Uncle Cormac,” Imogen responded with a soft, lilting laugh. He looked quite dashing in his dark clothes and flowing black cape. “The point is, it is not ridiculous if we all look ridiculous together.”

He stopped fidgeting with his mask and gave up. “Lord Woodley owes me for this sacrifice.” But in the next moment he winked at his wife. “You look delicious, love.”

“And stop flirting with Aunt Phoebe in front of me,” Imogen chided, although she was always delighted by how much her uncle adored his wife. This was the loving marriage she hoped to achieve for herself. However, she was not out in Society yet, and had never had a beau or even received flowers from anyone.

Nor had she ever received a stolen kiss.

She poked her head out the window and waited impatiently for their carriage to move up in queue, as several had drawn ahead of them under the massive portico. A devil and an angel descended from one, and a corn stalk and potato descended from another. “Well, everyone is getting into the spirit of the ball. Be grateful Aunt Phoebe did not decide to have you both come as vegetables. How is that potato ever going to sit?”

Her uncle merely grunted.

“It appears the Earl of Woodley has invited all of Cornwall,” Phoebe commented with noticeable dismay. “Stay close to us, Imogen. I fear this simple country ball will not be quite so simple after all. Indeed, I would declare it a crush.”

To the right of them was the elegant house that appeared enormous and quite imposing up close with its gray stone walls, massive chimneys, and beautifully landscaped lawn. To the left was a stunning view of the sea, and the sunlight glittering upon it like diamonds cast upon the water. It was a balmy summer day, and Imogen was eager to stroll the grounds and explore, although she could not go very far in her butterfly costume, since her wings were awkward and she had little peepers popping out of her hair that threatened to fly off in the constant breeze.

Why couldn’t butterflies have normal ears instead of those fragile, sticklike projections atop their heads? Imogen was certain they were going to fall off before the night was through. However, all in all, she was pleased with her costume.

When it came their turn to alight, Imogen went first and was quite surprised when the pirate strode forward to assist her. He did not bother to take her hand. Instead, he placed his own hands around her waist to lift her to the ground, and then held on to her several moments longer than were necessary. “Greetings, Miss Butterfly,” he said, his voice deep and seductive. “Or am I to address you as Lady Butterfly? Better yet, you shall simply be my butterfly.”

Imogen blushed, not that he would notice beneath her ornate half mask. “Lady Imogen Stockwell,” she replied, giving a theatrical curtsy that included a dramatic flare of her wings.

Their host bowed in turn. “Draco Waring at your service, although I am not sure we are supposed to be giving ourselves away at this early hour.”

His smile beneath his own black satin half mask was breathtaking.

Imogen wished she could see all of his face, for his eyes were a luminescent, silvery gray, and his hair was as black as a raven’s wing. He certainly had a finely honed body, which was impossible to overlook, as she had clutched his broad shoulders for support when he scooped her out of her uncle’s carriage as though she weighed no more than an actual butterfly.

“Oh, I did not think,” she muttered, now feeling utterly a fool for giving away her identity when the entire point of a masquerade ball was to remain mysterious.

The gentleman tucked a finger under her chin and gently raised her gaze to meet his. “It was a stupid idea to meet one’s neighbors in this fashion, but the choice was not mine to make. Albert Woodley and his daughter, Deandra, planned this event. Please, call me Draco.”

“Oh, then you are a guest here as well?”

“Not exactly.”

Imogen tried to study his expression, but who could see anything behind these dratted masks? “You are being quite mysterious…Draco.”

“Am I?” He still had his hand tucked under her chin, and a handsome smile on his lips that was beginning to irk her because he was making her body tingle.

“Yes, you are purposely evasive, and you know it.” This man clearly understood the effect he was having on her, because his smile, in addition to being rakishly appealing, was one of conquest. Well, he would have to think again if he believed she would surrender to him so easily. “You stood on the steps as though you owned the place.”

“Did I?”

Ugh, she wanted to add smugness as well as arrogance to his traits. “Yes, but you are certainly no footman. I get the impression you are used to answering to no one but yourself. I suppose this is just your irreverent nature.”

“Ah, I have been found out,” he responded with a resonant chuckle. “You will grow to like me over time, Butterfly. I’m glad you told me who you are, although I would have figured it out rather quickly, since you arrived in the Marquess of Burness’s carriage, and I hear he has a lovely niece visiting him for the summer. Still, I appreciate your saving me the bother of finding out your name. Will you allow me the pleasure of a waltz when the dancing starts?”

Imogen’s heart beat a little faster. “Yes, my lord…er, Mr. Waring.”

“Draco.”

“Er, yes.”

She still had no idea who this Draco Waring actually was. His name sounded like one a pirate might be given, so she assumed addressing him as Mr. Waring was proper. She certainly was not going to address him as Draco when in company.

But the name did suit him. There was an unmistakable ruggedness in his physique that would make him stand out amid more elegant Society.

Yet he was not coarse. There was also an air of refinement about him despite his hard edges. Refined and yet not a man to cross?

Goodness, he was making her head spin.

They spoke no more as her aunt and uncle descended from the carriage and a footman escorted them inside. Imogen easily spotted Aunt Phoebe’s sisters, Henley and Chloe, and their husbands, who looked as murderously unhappy as Uncle Cormac. Henley was dressed as Minerva, goddess of the sea, while her husband Cain, Duke of Malvern, was Neptune. Chloe came as Cleopatra, and Fionn, Viscount Brennan, was Julius Caesar.

Strolling around were angels, devils, more pirates, mermaids, sea gods, ancient queens, jesters, faeries, farm animals, vegetables, harlequins, and one or two more butterflies. Imogen recognized some of the local gentry despite their costumed disguises, but many of those in attendance were strangers to her. The ball was a crush, just as her Aunt Phoebe had feared, and many guests were not from Moonstone Landing.

As some of them began to spill from the house onto the expansive garden that overlooked the cove waters, Imogen followed. Most had grabbed glasses of champagne as they made their way outdoors, so she did the same but merely sipped hers, since she preferred to remain alert among so many people she did not know.

One of the reasons Uncle Cormac was so irate about their new neighbor throwing this splash of a masquerade ball, which would be talked about throughout Cornwall, was because people, when hiding behind a mask, often did things they would never do were they clearly seen. Imogen had to agree, for there was a group of men in a corner of the garden near the cliff walk already laughing boisterously and behaving in a loutish fashion.

A few of the gentlemen stopped jokingly shoving each other and took notice of her.

She walked in the opposite direction.

Another frustration for her was that since everyone was hiding behind a mask, how was she, or any of the other unmarried young ladies, to meet eligible young men and discern their true nature when she could not tell who they were?

One thing for certain—she did not wish to have anything to do with those unpleasant louts who were still staring at her.

The only gentleman she had met so far was Draco Waring, resident pirate, and she had no idea whether he was a decent fellow or someone else to be avoided at all costs.

“Butterfly, you should not be wandering off on your own,” the pirate himself said, as though conjured in her thoughts.

She turned to him as he came up behind her. “I only thought to catch a breath of air. It is quite crowded in the ballroom.”

Was he following her?

She meant to chide him, but smiled instead when she noticed he had a dog by his side, a rather large animal with curly brown fur and floppy ears who was remarkably well behaved, considering all the disconcerting activity going on around them. She could not tell what he was, no doubt because he was a confusing mix of breeds, but there was something quite loveable about his appearance, and he seemed to have a pleasant disposition. “Is he yours, Mr. Waring? May I pet him?”

“Yes, of course.” He nodded. “Parrot is a big baby and adores being coddled.”

Imogen knelt to scratch the dog behind his ears and was immediately rewarded with drooling licks along her hand. “Oh dear.”

His owner laughed and motioned a footman over. “We are in dire need of a damp cloth, if you please.”

“At once, my lord,” the servant said with a quick bob of his head, and hurried away.

“I ought to have warned you about Parrot.” Draco Waring bent on his haunches beside her to casually pet his dog. “But he does not usually take so fondly to strangers. He approves of you, however.”

“Well, I approve of him, too. Why do you call him Parrot? That is rather an odd name for a dog.”

“Do you think so?” His eyes beneath his mask were glittering with mirth. “It just seemed to fit him when he was a mere pup. He squawked rather than barked, and he had an odd way of turning his head, just the way a parrot does.” He shrugged. “See, he is doing it now.”

“Yes, I see.” Imogen laughed as she nodded. “May I draw his portrait sometime?”

He stopped petting his dog and regarded her with what appeared to be a soft expression. “Are you an artist, Butterfly?”

“Yes, mostly landscapes, but also people and animals. I am quite familiar with the flora and fauna in the area and have spent many summers drawing scenes of the surrounding cliffs and caves, including the pirate caves on this very property. I used to come here quite often for this purpose.”

“But no longer?” he asked, his expression suddenly serious.

She shook her head. “There were reports of pirate activity a couple of years ago, so my uncle forbade my coming here again. Do you know we have many caves once used for smuggling in the Moonstone Landing area? It was quite an active trade several centuries ago, and again only decades ago during the Napoleonic Wars, when so many goods were under embargo. The most popular pirate caves are right here, as a matter of fact. Just across the meadow from Woodley Lodge. I suppose you can easily access them from your cliff walk. Have you been down there yet?”

The footman returned with the damp cloth before her companion had the chance to respond. “Ah, here we go.” He rose, took the cloth from the footman, and then drew her up beside him. He turned her hand palm up and rested it in the cup of his own. “You have soft skin, Butterfly.”

“Don’t all butterflies?” She studied him while he wiped Parrot’s drool off her fingers and wrist with surprising gentleness. His touch shot tingles through her again, but she dared not make anything of it. Their proximity also affected her, for he was tall and broad in the shoulders, taut and trim, but unmistakably powerful.

Indeed, he exuded masculine heat and a decidedly brash confidence. This was most disconcerting. She had never responded in this manner to any gentleman before. His scent was divine, a blend of tropical bay spices that made her want to put her nose to his neck and brazenly inhale.

Goodness, what was she thinking? She struggled not to draw closer. She did not know this man at all, nor would she recognize him were they ever to meet again, since she had only seen him masked.

“All done, Butterfly,” he said with a raspy resonance to his voice.

“Thank you.” Perhaps she might recognize the silver glint of his eyes or the attractive shape of his lips if they ever met again. Not that it mattered. This was just a ball, and who knew if she would ever see this pirate after tonight? “Why do you insist on calling me Butterfly? Is it because you have forgotten my name?”

He cast her a devastating smile. “No, Lady Imogen Stockwell. I am not likely ever to forget a thing about you. Come, let me escort you through the garden and out of sight of those drunken fools who appear to have taken an avid interest in you.”

He offered his arm while they strolled, and she gladly latched on to it, for those leering knaves put her ill at ease.

“I do know of those pirate caves,” he said, in response to her earlier question, “but haven’t been down to properly scout them out yet. Are you an explorer?”

Imogen shook her head. “No, I am merely an artist.”

“Nothing mere about you, Imogen.” He stopped to stare at her. “So, you think you can sketch a decent portrait of Parrot?”

She laughed. “Yes, I believe I can. I could also draw you with Parrot. I’ll show you some of my work when my uncle, the Marquess of Burness, invites the Earl of Woodley and his family to Westgate Hall. Then you can make your own assessment of my talent.”

She shook her head immediately. “I’m sorry. I don’t know why I just assumed you were a member of Lord Woodley’s family. Perhaps it was the way you stood on the front steps earlier to greet everyone, and that footman referred to you as ‘my lord’ when he handed you the cloth a moment ago.”

“Albert Woodley is my uncle. I look forward to seeing your work when we are invited over.” His expression softened. “I sensed there was something special about you the moment I set eyes on you.”

“Nonsense.” She shook her head. “I expect you say this to all the young ladies.”

“What? That they are great artists? I assure you, I have said this to no one but you. I do not need to see your drawings to know you are serious about your craft. You have a small callous on your finger just where one might hold a paintbrush. But you also give yourself away in the way you look at things, although it is hard to tell more about you while we are all wearing these blasted masks.” He cast her a rakish smile. “We are to remove them and reveal ourselves right after the supper dance. May I claim that dance from you as well?”

Imogen wasn’t certain whether she ought to accept two dances from him without ever having seen his face, but it was not as though any other gentleman would know to approach her while they were all in disguise. Besides, those unpleasant louts near the cliff walk were still ogling, and she did not wish to give any of them the opportunity to claim her. There was one in particular among them, wearing a pirate costume with an ostentatious white egret feather atop his hat, who gave her the chills. She feared he might live up to a pirate’s marauding reputation. “Yes, you may,” she replied.

“Why do I sense a hesitation, Butterfly?”

“It isn’t really a hesitation… It is just—we are all hiding behind masks and spending hours not meeting each other. That seems a shame.”

They continued to stroll through the garden that more resembled a lovely cottage walk, with imprecise borders and an abundance of colorful flowers spilling over those loosely marked borders. Red roses climbed along trellises, and golden honeysuckle tumbled over stone walls. Purples, pinks, and whites bloomed everywhere.

“Do you think Lord Woodley would agree to my coming here to paint his garden? It is so beautiful.”

“I am certain he will, since it is actually my garden.”

“Yours?” Imogen paused to study him, ignoring the other guests wandering the grounds all around them. “Are you suggesting you own this property? All of it? The house, too?”

He nodded. “Did I neglect to mention? I am the Earl of Woodley, still too new to the title ever to think of myself as that. My uncle, Albert Woodley, has always been Lord Woodley to me. He and his daughter, Deandra, reside with me. They are welcome to stay as long as they wish. In truth, I expect they will settle here while I spend most of my time dashing around the south of England looking after the Woodley properties. I suppose I must also spend time in London when Parliament is in session. But I hope to avoid it as much as possible. Well, Deandra will soon be old enough to make her debut, and I will have to bring her and her father to London for that. Not for another two years yet, I should think.”

“I am to make my debut this upcoming year. I shall be almost twenty by then, and my parents believe I ought to be ready to face the ton.”

“Almost twenty,” he murmured, seeming to find it humorous. “That would make you only nineteen now.”

He did not appear to be more than in his mid-twenties, so what made him so superior? “What do you find so amusing, my lord? How old are you?”

“Why are you taking offense? Did I say anything insulting about your age? There is nothing wrong with it. Many young ladies are placed on the Marriage Mart at a younger age. Many are married and have children by the age of nineteen. But you still look offended.”

She nodded. “It is your expression.”

“The one hidden behind my mask?” He sighed. “It isn’t what you think.”

They had reached the stone wall that separated the Woodley garden from the meadow beyond it that sloped downward toward the old pirate caves and sparkling cove waters. He released her to lean back and rest his elbows atop the weathered stone while he now faced the magnificent house. “You are young, Butterfly. But it is your innocence more than anything that makes you unsuitable for one such as myself.”

She gasped. “Unsuitable? For what? Marriage? I did not realize I was anything more than a guest at your party. How could you presume—”

“Do you dare deny it? All the young ladies are after me.”

“You are the one who approached me, not the other way around. Are you suggesting they would take you sight unseen?” She shook her head and choked out a laugh. “I assure you, I would not. If you’ll excuse me, I ought to return inside.”

“No, wait.” He caught her hand and regarded her for a long moment. “You are different from the others, aren’t you?” he said, sounding a little surprised but pleased. “I like this about you, Butterfly. You will not settle for just any man.”

They continued to stare at each other, mask to mask.

“Indeed, I would not. I wish for a true marriage and not an empty title.” She meant to curl her hands into fists while frowning at him, but he still held her hand, and now took gentle hold of the other.

He glanced down at their entwined fingers and cast her a soft smile. “You rise in my estimation. But the fact remains, I am an unmarried earl, and every other young lady here considers me a desirable catch.”

She slipped out of his grasp. Those louts in the corner were ridiculous, but her handsome pirate was proving to be little better. “It is a good thing you are not ready to marry yet,” she muttered, for this man was so full of himself, she did not think he knew how to be a good husband. “You would make the young lady you’ve chosen quite miserable.”

“Would I now?” he replied, his tone one of surprise mingled with dismissive arrogance.

Imogen thought he would burst out laughing, but his gaze soon turned pensive. “Perhaps you are right,” he said softly. “But who is to say I will not have a change of heart and be ready to take a wife within a year? I might be ready to settle down by then.”

She shook her head. “You won’t be.”

“How do you know?”

“I sense quite a restlessness in you, not to mention a good dose of arrogance. You enjoy your freedom and your power. It is a good thing you are earl, because you do not have a subservient nature and will not bow to anyone.”

“So this is what you think of me? Not a flattering opinion at all.”

She sighed. “It did sound insulting, didn’t it? Forgive me. Actually, I like you. I think you are probably a very good man, just not ready to be a good husband yet. That is the only point I wished to make, and I fear I have made it rather badly.”

“Perhaps I am a little too full of myself,” he admitted.

“Because you are much sought after. It is hard to let down your guard when so many people are ready to lie to you to advance their own purposes. I like to think I can read one’s true character. This is what makes me a good artist. I pick up on what people are feeling and bring it out in my portraits of them.”

“You think you are wise about people?” He studied her in return. “Then tell me more about myself. Start with how old you think I am.”

Imogen was up for the challenge. “That is hard to say when I cannot see your face. But if I had to guess, I would say you were no more than twenty-six years of age. Am I close?”

He chuckled. “On the nose, my clever butterfly. Tell me more about myself.”

“All right.” Oh, she had no doubt he was handsome. His body looked as though it had been sculpted out of stone. He was quite confident about his appeal with ladies. But the same could be said of other young men, some of whom were also attending this party.

She made the mistake of meeting his gaze and noted the glint of amusement in his eyes. But his was not a jovial nature. There was a hard layer of ice beneath that mask of charm. How much did she dare reveal to him? Not that she cared about insulting him again, since he was never going to court her. What was it he had told her? That she was too young and innocent to be of interest to him? The man was insufferably full of himself.

“There is a ruthlessness about you that cannot be masked,” she said.

“First you claim I am restless and now you have decided I am ruthless.” He moved off his relaxed stance against the stone wall and rubbed the back of his neck. “Most women find me charming.”

She nodded. “I am sure you can be quite the persuasive rake when you want to be. You are no doubt doggedly determined once you set your mind to a goal.”

“Is it a bad thing to know what I want and not let anyone stop me?”

“Depends on what you hope to achieve. You don’t care what people think of you, that much is obvious. You trust very few and are not easily impressed. You are demanding of others, but you also demand a lot of yourself.”

He grunted. “Go on.”

“There is a gentler side to you because you are capable of caring for others.”

“Even though I don’t care what they think of me?”

“That’s right. You have a very strong sense of honor. I think your hard edges are softened because you often apply your natural strengths toward a good purpose.”

“So, you have concluded I have a good heart?”

“Well, I do not sense cruelty in you. Just stubbornness, considerable arrogance, irreverence, and—”

“Ah, so I am a sainted rogue.”

“Dear heaven, I doubt you are a saint.” Imogen shook her head emphatically. “You are too conceited ever to be so humble.”

He laughed. “You are insulting me again.”

“I don’t mean to, but you…” She sighed. “Never mind.”

“No, do go on.”

She glanced at his dog and the absent way he was now patting the happy beast’s head. He may be a pirate rogue and a rakehell, but he also had a good measure of kindness. “You like to be in control of a situation, but you also have very strong protective instincts, which explains why you have remained by my side even as your gaze constantly darts to those young men behaving like idiots near the cliff walk.”

His roguish smile returned. “You think I am protecting you?”

She nodded. “I have no doubt of it.”

“What if I am here beside you because I wish to steal a kiss?” He eased closer, his gaze slowly raking over her body so that she felt the heat of that stare. “Would you let me kiss you, Butterfly?”

Her eyes widened in surprise—not because of her shock at the question but because of her shock at the answer she considered giving him.

He grinned and bent over her hand with an elegant bow. “I can read people, too. Next time I have you all to myself, you shall have your kiss.”

She did not know what to say to that bold statement, so she ran inside the elegant house in search of her aunt and uncle. Parrot loped along at her side. “Oh, you silly dog. Go back to your master.”

But the sweet pet would not leave her, and she realized he had been given the command to stay beside her and protect her all evening. Warmth flooded through her as she watched her not-so-wicked pirate protector saunter toward the house seemingly without a care in the world.

Two young ladies approached him, and he had roguish smiles for them. Imogen realized he had now forgotten all about her as those ladies fussed over him and began to flirt outrageously. They leaned in close to him and suggestively touched his arm. They skimmed their hands brazenly along his chest.

He took it all in stride, as though women accosted him in this fashion all the time. Well, he had told her they did, but she hadn’t believed him.

“Outrageous,” she muttered to herself. “Take him, ladies. I gladly hand him over to you.”

But she did not really feel glad about it.

In fact, she felt bereft, which made no sense.

Why ever would she want that pirate’s kiss?

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