Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

Lucien Pritchard's favorite chess piece was the rook, formerly referred to as the chariot or the marquess. The rook began the game in the corner of the board, the whole battlefield open to his view. As a war prize, his value exceeded that of even the queen.

Lucien's opponent, one Leopold St. Didier, was in danger of losing his queen's rook to a lowly pawn. The match was of no moment to the other gentlemen gathered in the club's subdued opulence, merely an idle contest between two of the quieter members.

Lucien knew better. "You are distracted," he said when St. Didier moved a bishop rather than implement the obvious defensive strategy.

"You are too polite to suggest I forfeit, and you are right." St. Didier tipped over his king. "I am distracted. I saw the ring."

"I beg your pardon?" Lucien's question was casual, but those four words— I saw the ring —filled him with frustration. He returned his army to its opening formation, taking care to move the pieces in rank order and without haste .

"The lion rampant." St. Didier allowed his defeated forces to languish on their squares.

"The lion of England. A ring is a sentimental affectation, St. Didier. When one leaves Albion's shores, little reminders of home take on comforting significance."

"And my lord left these shores nearly ten years ago. What brought you back?"

My lord . Plagues and afflictions . "A sailing ship brought me back, and another might soon carry me away again."

"My lord excels at the tactical retreat." St. Didier extended a hand across the chessboard, the polite gesture signaling defeat.

Lucien shook when he'd rather have upended the board. "The lion rampant is probably the most common device in British heraldry." He set about restoring proper order to St. Didier's vanquished pieces.

"But your lion rampant is in the attitude sinister rather than the traditional dexter, and that caught my eye."

Lucien had worn the signet ring only once in recent months, to a gathering hosted by the Dowager Duchess of Huntleigh and attended by her nephew—who happened to be the present duke and Lucien's employer—and that fellow's new bride. St. Didier had been in attendance as well, damn the luck.

"Say what you have to say, St. Didier. Whether a decorative creature faces left or right is hardly of any moment. You did not invite me to this table for the sake of a passing diversion." Though to be fair, St. Didier played well, albeit conservatively.

"You were a decorative creature once," St. Didier replied. "A marquess's heir. One wonders what turned you up so difficult and contrary."

"I am contrary by nature." Lucien wasn't yet thirty, but he abruptly felt as weary as a spavined coach horse. "What does great-auntie want now?"

"She wants you home, where you belong, managing the family's affairs. I am not here on her behalf."

Of all the cousins, in-laws, step-relations, and impersonators thereof at Lynnfield, only one individual interested Lucien significantly.

"Who put you on my trail?" Lucien braced himself for disappointment, and yet, hope stirred as well.

St. Didier's calling was to discreetly locate missing, distant, and otherwise obscure heirs on behalf of titled families in want of same. He knew the arcana of inheritance, legitimacy, and royal patents, and he'd recently rescued the Huntleigh dukedom from the near occasion of escheat.

Leopold St. Didier knew Society's scandals and was himself the scion of a house relieved of its honors for want of a proper heir.

"Lady Penelope asked me to locate you," St. Didier said, picking up the black queen. "She sends her regards."

What the rubbishing hell did that mean? "Please convey my greetings to her ladyship in return."

Lucien waited for whatever came next. A request for funds, word of some elder's failing health, a warning that Auntie was growing dotty. Pen would be that decent, he hoped. He would be decent enough to respond civilly too.

"Her ladyship is troubled by a legal matter," St. Didier said. "You can solve it for her."

Once upon a time, Lucien would have surrendered his life for Penelope's happiness. He would still die to keep her safe and, in a sense, nearly had.

"St. Didier, you try my patience. The hour grows late for a mere majordomo. My solicitors have always known how to reach me."

"Her ladyship dislikes confiding in what she refers to as a boogle of long-winded weasels."

Her ladyship was apparently still outspoken. Good for her. "She sometimes called them a sneak of weasels," Lucien replied and immediately regretted it. "Both terms are correct."

St. Didier wasn't given to smiling, but his dark eyes gleamed with apparent amusement. "The solicitors drafted your betrothal agreements, and you and the lady signed them."

"We were told to sign them." Ordered to sign them. "Both of us were yet in our minorities, so the agreement was never binding on us." Lucien had consulted independent counsel to confirm that fact before leaving England.

"Just so. You were both underage, and now you have both attained your majorities."

A cold, sad feeling took up residence in the center of Lucien's chest. "Her ladyship is free to do as she pleases." She always had been, did she but know it.

"You will execute a formal repudiation of the betrothal agreement?"

"Of course." The pain in Lucien's chest congealed into sorrow, but cutting the last tie was doubtless for the best.

"Her ladyship thanks you."

Lucien plucked the black queen from St. Didier's grasp and put the piece on its proper square. "She has nothing to thank me for. Send me the relevant documents, and I will append my signature before witnesses."

"As it happens, I have the papers with me now."

Lucien had known this day would come, but he hadn't known it would come under the guise of a friendly game of chess at a quiet club for gentlemen of slightly awkward standing. Younger sons, former MPs voted out after a single term, wealthy gentlemen whose fathers had been in trade… The Marches was a place for those whom Society tolerated rather than accepted.

Signing a repudiation would be one more step away from the past, a step Lucien should have been eager to take.

Should have been… "If you intend to witness my signature," he said, "we still need two more witnesses to appease the formalities. I cannot allow my ancient history to become common knowledge here." A delaying tactic—strategic retreats usually were—also a valid concern. These men knew him as Pritchard, general factotum of the ne w Duke of Huntleigh, not as a marquess's heir who'd disappeared from Society years ago.

St. Didier paused, withdrawing an empty hand from the breast of his evening coat. "My apologies. Discretion is warranted for the lady's sake if not for yours. You are right again."

"Come around tomorrow," Lucien said, minutely relieved to have order established on the chessboard. "The ducal abode is deadly dull now that Their Graces have taken ship. I am to have tea with the dowager later in the day, but I can attend you any time before noon."

Before polite society was out and about, enjoying the increasingly temperate weather and the increasing stores of gossip to be gathered in the shops and on the bridle paths.

"Tomorrow, then. You are being unexpectedly reasonable."

Pen had anticipated a fight? "I wish her ladyship every happiness. You may tell her as much. Another game would suit."

St. Didier obliged, but the game did not suit Lucien at all. Too many games played with Penelope—chess, backgammon, and even kissing games—crowded onto the field of memory. Lucien won nonetheless. He usually won.

Not all the time, though. Pen had been a fiend for the sneak attack. A queen in her hands was the equal of any rook. Did she still play? If she didn't, that would be a shame, but against whom could she aim all that skill and guile?

"Twice defeated," St. Didier said some thirty minutes later. "I must give some thought to my strategies. Shall we enjoy the night air while the rain has let up?"

God, yes . Solitude beckoned. Solitude and the decanters. "You didn't bring your coach?"

"I like to walk. I'm not the inveterate perambulator that Huntleigh is, but neither am I sedentary by nature."

St. Didier was given to prowling, stalking, and noticing, all the while pretending to be just another serious, dark-haired gent blessed with skilled tailors and some means.

When he and Lucien reached the street, mist diffused the lamplight, and the hour—neither late nor early—meant no wheeled traffic rattled along on the cobbles.

A good night for sorrowing. "How is she?" Lucien asked when they were two streets away from the club and the lamps were farther apart.

"Lady Penelope? She's robust, astute, formidable."

Pen was also pretty, but nobody noticed that in the face of her intellect and personality. "Does she laugh?" A younger Lucien had delighted to inspire her laughter.

"I cannot say. Our dealings have been largely by letter. When I did meet with her, she appeared to be thriving. Very certain of her objectives."

Too certain, sometimes. Stubborn, heedless… all the shortcomings she'd ascribed so credibly to Lucien, though he was, in fact, the soul of reason under most circumstances.

"Give her my regards. I'm around the corner here. Good night, St. Didier. Your discretion is appreciated."

"Spoken like a peer, if you don't mind my saying so. Are you sure you don't want to make a short visit to Lynnfield to discuss the situation with her ladyship?"

"I know my own mind, sir." And knew better than to clap eyes on Penelope at any distance less than twenty yards. "Good night, St. Didier."

"Until tomorrow."

They bowed and parted, but a question occurred to Lucien, one he could ask no other. He retraced his steps lest he shout his query into the London darkness.

"I assume Lady Penelope is tending to these legalities at long last because she has marriage in mind," he observed, trying for nonchalance. "Who is the lucky fellow?"

"Hmm? Oh, the lucky fellow. Well, they aren't engaged, of course, given the betrothal agreement with you, but the churchyard speculators allow that her ladyship has been saving her waltzes for Sir Dashiel Ingraham. Not a love match, one notes, but very cordial. "

Lucien was grateful for the darkness. "I see." He saw Penelope smiling up into the face of an Adonis who would never be worthy of her and, in fact, wasn't worthy of a baronet's honors either. "Sir Dashiel Ingraham."

"He's home from the wars, considered quite the catch, and the two of them do seem to get on."

Sir Dashiel excelled at getting on. He'd even managed to leave the military without being court-martialed for his crimes.

St. Didier arranged a claret-colored scarf about his neck. "Shall we say ten of the clock tomorrow?"

That scarf—a red flag against otherwise subdued attire—caught Lucien's eye. Penelope was forthright to a fault, not given to subterfuge, much less subtlety. Lucien had loved that about her.

Appreciated that about her, rather, and yet, his chess master's imagination considered it just possible that Pen had got herself into a situation involving Sir Dashiel that wasn't quite what it appeared to be.

Or perhaps it was exactly what it appeared to be: an impending courtship between two adults, who would make a fine, cordial match.

But Sir Dashiel Ingraham… Lucien's soul rebelled at the very thought. Years ago, Penelope had been unwilling to trust the good intentions of a young man she'd considered her best friend. What did Sir Dashiel offer that Lucien had lacked?

"You can send the documents over," he said, "but don't bother coming around. I'll be looking in on Lynnfield, after all. The legalities can wait a few days."

St. Didier offered a slight bow. "Very good, my lord. I am at your service if you'd like a traveling companion." He walked off into the night.

"Don't milord me," Lucien muttered as St. Didier's footsteps faded.

Lucien turned the opposite direction and considered the decision he'd just made. He'd hear nothing but milording at Lynnfield, that and Auntie's lectures and importuning. If he could hear Penelope's laughter, though…

Well, no. Best all around not to hear Penelope's laughter. All that was in the past.

The rain resumed, and Lucien marched for the deserted house he'd lately been calling home.

"Why now?" Tommie groused, laboring slightly in the cool morning air. "Why does the blighter have to come home after all these years? Lynnfield runs fine without him lurking in the library at all hours."

Tommie was being loyal, and Lady Penelope Richard appreciated loyalty. "Lucien is our marquess, Tom. We hoped he'd come home sooner or later." Hoped wasn't quite the right word. Dreaded might be closer to the mark.

Penelope smiled at the pair of gardeners wrestling a potted peach tree into its designated corner of the garden. The younger of the two tugged his cap. The elder merely nodded.

"You defend him," Tom muttered. "For pity's sake, Penny, slow down. Last I heard, ladies were to move about with languid grace, fluttering their fans and making sheep's eyes at the nearest bachelor. That would be me, by the way, but if you insist on dashing the entire distance to the stable, you'll find yourself quite without my handsome and charming escort."

Tommie was flustered, bless him. The whole Lynnfield miscellany, from the marchioness down to Aunt Purdy, was abuzz with news of Lucien's return, and thus the staff and neighbors were abuzz. Even the pantry mouser had been tearing about the kitchens in an unseemly display when Penelope and Tom had made their escape.

"His lordship won't turn you out," Penelope said, slowing marginally as they passed from the garden onto the path that led to the stable. "He'll not turn anybody out. One word to the solicitors at any point, and we'd all have been banished from the property. "

"Not you. Her ladyship wouldn't allow that. She couldn't manage without you. Why can't gentlemen be ladies' companions? We don't get megrims, we are pleasant to look upon, we are endlessly diverting when provided with an appreciative audience, and we are handy when a bit of muscle is needed."

Tom was pleasant to look at—merely pleasant. His features were friendly rather than handsome, and he could be diverting when he wasn't so desperately worried. He would have made a jolly squire, with his blond hair, blue eyes, and solid construction, but he suffered the sad lack of funds that struck many an otherwise worthy fellow from the rolls of the eligibles.

"You will always be welcome to bide at Finbury," Penelope said, though she'd rather he didn't. "The dower cottage sits empty, and you'd enliven the neighborhood considerably."

"Kind of you, Penny." A hint of masculine peevishness conveyed both relief and resentment. "Why does everything smell like shit, pardon my language? The whole shire reeks."

"Because in spring, Thomas, we clean out the byres, sheds, and muck pits and spread the manure on the fields, the better to grow our corn and clover." He ought to know that, but Thomas, raised as a gentleman and more interested in fashion than farming, likely thought eggs grew on trees.

"I take it you've forgiven his lordship for jilting you?" Thomas asked as the path wound across a corner of the park.

"The marquess did not jilt me."

"Suppose he hasn't. You're still technically betrothed to him, aren't you? Does a betrothal expire? Is it like taking the king's shilling? You are free to turn your back on the whole business after a time certain?"

The morning was lovely, the dew sparkling on the grass, the birds in full chorus, and the trees showing the luminous green that spoke of leaves not entirely unfurled. A good morning for a solitary gallop, but there had been Thomas, lurking in the kitchen hallway, as if he, too, needed to avoid breakfast en famille .

"The solicitors will sort out any lingering legalities," Penelope said. "I'd appreciate it if you didn't mention old business to Sir Dashiel."

Thomas stopped to pick a daffodil and slip the stem through the buttonhole on the lapel of his riding jacket.

"I'll be silent as Uncle Malcolm, and I will tell the rest of the elders to do likewise. I'd like to give our marquess a piece of my mind, though. Leaving you all but at the altar, no word, no apology. Lucien has a nerve strutting back here like he owns the place."

He did own the place, in point of fact. "I bear the marquess no malice, Tommy. We were too young for marriage anyway." By Penelope's standards. By Society's standards, they'd been plenty old enough.

"Were you secretly relieved when Lucien bolted? You can tell me, Many Penny. Were you grateful for room to breathe before you took on the Lady Lynnfield folderol? You hadn't had even one proper Season at that point, if I recall. The marquess was rushing his fences, but that's what university boys do. I speak from experience."

Thomas had lasted two years at university before being sent down the final time for drunkenness. The real offense had been lewd behavior, a euphemism for taking a bet to pelt along the banks of the River Cherwell sans vêtements .

Tom had won the bet, likely the last income he'd enjoyed since taking up residence at Lynnfield, and the last time he'd exerted himself at speed anywhere save a dessert buffet.

"You needn't ride with me," Penelope said, ignoring Tom's attempts to pry into the past. "I'm only out for a hack around the orchards."

The cherry trees were blooming, a sight to cheer up any morose soul, not that Penelope was feeling morose.

"You didn't answer my question. You were glad to see Lucien go, weren't you? I certainly was. He's too dour by half. All that chess and reading, and the French and Latin and Italian. I don't think he realized what language he spoke half the time. One worried for his reason, and then to disappear… Not the done thing, Penny dearest. Even you must admit as much. An impecunious old baron might get away with that nonsense, but not a marquess who has no heir. Then to remain gone for years and to lark about a continent at war. The Deity gave us a brainbox. Somebody should have reminded Lord Lynnfield of that salient fact."

Tom's precarious status at Lynnfield would inspire him to needle, pontificate, and fret without ceasing. His worry was legitimate. Lynnfield was home to more mooching aunties, unrelated "cousins," and long-term visitors than Windsor Castle.

But Penelope needed peace, and for once, she intended to get what she needed. "I have a job for you, Tom. I can't entrust it to anybody else."

They emerged from a hedgerow to behold the stable, a stately building shaped like a two-story U. The same gray granite quarried for the manor was in evidence here. Grooms were watering horses before turning them out for a morning at grass. A chestnut mare with a golden foal mincing at her side cropped grass under the shade of a gauzy maple.

I will miss this, if Lucien sends us all away. The thought struck from nowhere, borne on piercingly bright beams of spring sunshine and redolent of pastoral contentment.

"What's this errand, Penny? Will it take me to Town? I could use an excuse to nip up to London if Lucien intends to make a plague of himself here."

"We'd best accustom ourselves to calling him Lord Lynnfield. Might you trot over to the Ingrahams' and let Dashiel know the news? He should hear it from us, though I'm sure word has already made the rounds in the village."

"Suppose you're right. You don't want to tell him yourself?"

"That would make the whole business too important. Lucien is Lord Lynnfield. That he's looking in on the family seat is only to be expected. He won't realize this means every menu will have to be revised, the bouquets changed more frequently, the library dusted more regularly. If those tasks are to be tended to, I'll need to meet with the housekeeper, butler, and gardeners. We're to have a distinguished guest for an unspecified period, and arrangements must be made"

"Righty-ho. Hasn't anything to do with you, other than counting out the fresh linens and candles. A triviality wrapped in a nothingness tied up with complete indifference. Wouldn't want Dash to worry. You are shrewder than you look, my girl."

I am not a girl. I am not yours. "Thank you, Tommie. I knew I could count on you."

He strode off, bellowing for a groom to fetch his horse, though the horse was not, in fact, his.

Ten minutes later, Penelope settled onto her mare, thanked the groom, and guided her mount from the stable yard at a walk. Lucien had left on a brisk and brilliant morning like this, cantering over the hill without a backward glance.

Had he bothered to look behind him, he'd have seen Penelope, standing alone at the orchard gate, silently wishing him Godspeed at the same time she'd longed to call him back. Whatever else had been true, she hadn't been ready for marriage, especially to Lucien.

She could admit that now, to herself at least.

For half an hour, Penelope put her mare through her paces, and as always, Ursuline was game. They hopped a few stiles for form's sake, then cooled out on the bridle path that ran between the mill and the cherry orchard.

When Penelope reached her destination, she dismounted with a sense of having found a small store of peace. The blossoms were a canopy of white, the air graced with hints of almond, rose, and vanilla. She let the mare steal a few mouthfuls of grass—bad manners, that—and perched on the low stone wall encircling the orchard.

Penelope closed her eyes, the tranquility of the surrounds sinking into her mind and body. If she married Dashiel— if she married him, very much if —her solitary hacking days would be over. Dash had earned his Town bronze, and he'd cut a swath as an officer, but in a wife, he'd expect the traditional version of decorous behavior. That predictable hypocrisy should not annoy Penelope, but it most assuredly did. Too much like dear Henry, God rest his strutting soul.

"You still come here."

Penelope opened her eyes. The voice was both familiar and different. Deeper than she recalled Lucien's voice being, the hint of an accent all but gone. Not French, as most people thought, though Lucien was fluent in French, but the Welsh that vined through and around his whole ancestry.

She rose and turned, keeping the low wall between them. Lucien stood, bareheaded, two yards off. The sight of him gladdened her heart at the same time it nudged at long-dormant rage.

"Do you still hide among the trees, Lucien?"

His expression subtly shuttered, not that Lucien had ever been an open book. "You were preoccupied and did not notice me in the shade. You are looking well, my lady."

The honorific was bracing. She'd been Pen to him as far back as she could recall. "As are you, my lord." He looked older, of course. Leaner, wearier, and bigger . Lucien had shot up to six feet by the time he'd turned fifteen and had added a bit more in the subsequent years, but he'd remained wiry and lanky in his youth. Since then, he'd put on muscle, particularly in the chest and shoulders, though his thighs had always been...

Penelope pretended to fiddle with her skirts, though she wore a plain, country riding habit. No great billows of fabric swirled about her boots. No clever hooks or loops were needed to make walking possible.

Lucien prowled close enough that Penelope could see the golden flecks in his blue eyes. His dark hair was longer than he'd worn it as a younger man and had acquired reddish highlights. He gazed down at her, a serious, exquisitely attired stranger who bore a resemblance to an old and much-missed friend.

The impression was unnerving, which inspired Penelope to marshal her composure. How dare he intrude on one of her rare moments of solitude? How dare he ambush her when she'd desperately needed privacy and peace?

"Are we to be awkward with each other, my lady?" His question was utterly neutral.

"We are to be cordial," Penelope said, looking for some sign that this remote, lordly creature had at one time been her Lucien. The marquess she beheld was not a happy man. She could deduce that much, and she steeled her heart against the questions raised by such a conclusion.

"One is relieved to hear it." He let out a single shrill whistle, and a leggy black gelding trotted up from the direction of the mill. "Lady Penelope, may I make known to you Lorenzo the Magnificent. If you have contemplated the splendors of nature sufficiently for the nonce, I can give you a leg up."

She wanted to give him a black eye—and to ask what troubled him. "Are you offering to escort me back to the stable yard like some neighbor who just happened to cross my path by the trout pond?"

Lucien occupied himself taking up his horse's girth two holes. "I thought we might ride back to the manor together."

He was apparently still a bad liar, a small consolation. "They've missed you, my lord. The marchioness has already had the marquess's suite aired. The prodigal son did not receive as sincere a welcome as you will."

He ceased fussing with his saddle. "That bothers you?"

In a subtle, easily denied way, he was inviting her to talk , and in that direction lay perils without number.

"If you leave the past alone, Lucien, I will do likewise. I was barely out of the schoolroom when last we saw each other, and we are all but strangers now."

He studied her for an interminable moment, and she studied him back. He'd not only aged, he'd matured , and Lucien had never been frivolous by nature. A stubborn youth had become an implacable man, despite all the fine tailoring and politesse.

"I regret causing you any sorrow, my lady, if, in fact, I did. "

Penelope perceived for the first time that they might, perhaps, somehow, have caused each other sorrow. That suspicion made no sense, but Lucien was guarding sadness behind his vast reserves of dignity. She'd have bet the whole cherry crop that his remorse was genuine.

"Likewise, my lord. No more need be said on the matter." She tugged her mare forward, used the wall as a mounting block, got herself into the saddle after only minimal awkwardness, and took up the reins.

Lucien swung onto his gelding, and Penelope set a placid pace for the manor. She needed time to think, to adjust, to recover. The blighter hadn't been expected for hours, and yet, here he was, looking all lordly and impressive.

For just a moment, when she'd first beheld him on the far side of the wall, she'd been tempted to yank off her glove and slap his lordly face. He had all but jilted her, he hadn't left her a word of explanation, and now he was back with the barest scintilla of an apology.

And he had the nerve to be attractive too. Not quite handsome—he was too sharp-featured for that—but attractive.

She'd wanted to slap him, hard.

She'd also wanted to hug the breath right out of him, and that bothered her all the way back to the stable. Ursuline had not even been led away before the marquess's arrival precipitated general jollification. Amid much shaking of hands and backslapping among the assembled males, Penelope slipped into the shadows and left his lordship to enjoy his triumphant return without her.

Let him be reminded of what abandonment felt like, even if only to a minor degree.