Chapter One

One year later

Standing in the foyer, Honoria grinned as she watched her older sister dash toward the carriage to elope with the Duke of

Longhurst. Then the front door of Hartley Hall closed, their ever-stoic butler unmoved by the romantic display.

Though, to be fair, Mr. Mosely usually witnessed some degree of insanity every day, such as Father scaling the trellis to

reenact the balcony scene in Romeo and Juliet , or Mother having the servants dress in the attic costumes in order to air them out from time to time. Therefore, a mad dash

to Gretna Green likely seemed little more than a commonplace Wednesday.

In fact, life in the small hamlet of Addlewick was rarely conventional.

Of course, it wasn't as thrilling as Paris by any means, but—

"Would you like me to see to the matter of Miss Hunnicutt?" Mosely asked with a passing glance down to the brass key dangling

from Honoria's fingertips.

Only then did she remember that their odious neighbor was locked in the closet beneath the stairs. She pursed her lips, thinking

that it would probably be best to let her out. Then again...

Nell Hunnicutt had always been an interfering harpy who'd made Verity's life a misery and had tried her best to stop the elopement. So, what kind of sister would Honoria be if she let her out too soon?

"Thank you, but I'll see to it." She tossed the key aloft and caught it smartly in her hand.

Then she turned and nearly ran directly into her mother.

The smile that Baroness Roxana Hartley wore upon her lips wasn't like the beatific smiles for which she was known. No, indeed.

This one was glowing. And her eyes, set within a heart-shaped face framed by a chestnut coiffure with only the barest wisps

of gray at the temples, were uncommonly bright as if she'd come down with some sort of illness.

Considering the fact that she'd been perfectly hale a minute ago, Honoria suspected the affliction was brought on by Verity's

elopement. A clear case of matrimonial fever.

With one daughter settled, she wouldn't rest until all of them were. And as the middle daughter, Honoria was next in line.

Well, not if she could help it.

The last thing she wanted was for all the matchmaking attention to turn to her. So she decided to put her younger sister in

the limelight instead. "Have you seen Althea? She was just here a moment ago."

"Oh, she had an idea for another play and went off to find a new ledger," Mother offered with an elegant flit of her fingers.

"It has been quite the momentous morning, hmm?"

The words were spoken with a hum of delight. To Honoria's ears it sounded like the low murmur of bees, and she had the misfortune

of being the only flower in sight.

Honoria took a reflexive step back. "Indeed it has. And I'm certain Verity will be quite content with Magnus. Then again,

after all the moping she's done of late, any alteration would be an improvement."

Realizing that she'd stepped directly into the fan of light streaming in through the transom window above the door, she quickly

sidestepped her mother...

Only to encounter Countess Broadbent, who happened to be Longhurst's grandmother and an old friend of the family. The silver-haired matron stood between her and the arched passageway that was her only escape from the hive.

"How right you are, Miss Hartley," the countess said in smooth, rounded tones, steepling her fingers like a cage in front

of her bosom. "Your concern for her welfare does you credit. And having one's sister married so well provides a sense of...

liberation, I should think. Perhaps even enthusiasm, hmm?"

More buzzing, Honoria thought. The bees were circling.

She darted a sideways glance to her mother to see her eyes soften, the way they did when she was listening to Father recite

love sonnets. Drat! But Honoria knew that she needed to keep the focus where it belonged: on the pair who'd just run off to

Gretna Green.

They were today's news, not her.

"I have every hope for Verity's happiness. She is, more often than not, ruled by her sensibilities. In that regard, I believe

she and your grandson are well matched, my lady."

Honoria oh so casually feinted left, then dodged right to slyly circumvent the countess.

But Lady Broadbent was crafty. Sidling up to her, she wove their arms together to promenade down the paneled hall toward the

morning room. "I admit, this was my very hope from the start. I couldn't have planned it better myself. And while I have a

mind for planning, I do believe we should discuss your Season, my dear. Of course, I shall be your sponsor."

"You are too kind. Truly. However, I've already had my Season."

"Pish tosh." She clucked her tongue. "As I recall, your uncle chaperoned you and your cousin to a few inconsequential parties.

Then his daughter quickly caught the notice of a colonel and was wed shortly thereafter. You couldn't have had much of society."

"Well, there was the scandal—"

"Which has nearly been wiped from your family's name, or soon will be once your sister and my grandson are officially wed.

A duke in the family opens many doors. Mark my words, some handsome gentleman will soon sweep you off your feet, and you'll

never look back."

When Honoria's mind suddenly conjured a vision of a night sky filled with a fingernail moon amidst a cluster of twinkling

stars and a pair of dark eyes that had seemed to see through to her very soul, she knew it meant nothing. It had happened

before. And the fact that her middle might have issued a moth-wing flutter during those episodes meant even less than nothing.

"Being swept off one's feet sounds rather primitive. As if men were lurking in their caves, clubs at the ready and eager to

carry off the next unsuspecting female."

"That isn't far from the truth," Mother said with a laugh, falling into step behind them. "In fact, when I first met your

father—"

Thankfully, Mother's story, which was often too descriptive regarding how well Father had looked in his snug buckskin breeches,

stopped abruptly at the interruption of a rather irate voice coming from the closet beneath the stairs.

"Will someone please let me out!"

Mother stopped. "Is that... Nell Hunnicutt?"

That was when Honoria remembered she had the key in her palm. Met with her mother's and the countess's dubious looks, she

shrugged her shoulders. "Don't blame me. Longhurst was the one who locked her in. Something to do with recompense. Regardless,

it isn't as though that's the strangest thing to happen in this family."

Lady Broadbent pursed her lips and refrained from comment.

Mother nodded and held out her hand. "Better leave the matter to me, then. I'll have to smooth things over with her mother.

Lady Macbeth has nothing on Elaine Hunnicutt."

"I heard that," Nell sneered.

"Did you, dear? How splendid for you." Mother took her time in turning the key in the lock.

When Nell was finally let loose—looking a bit frazzled as she pushed back a fall of straw-colored hair, her feathered hat

sagging off to one side—she pointed at each of them in turn. "You all deserve to be in Bedlam!"

Then she stormed off, marching toward the front door and passing Althea on the way.

"Don't tell me I've missed all the excitement again," Thea groused, stomping her stockinged foot.

She was a beauty in her own right, favoring their mother in form and feature, with curling mahogany hair and sooty eyelashes

so thick they could start a hurricane with two blinks. More than half the men in Addlewick were in love with her. But she

only had eyes for her plays.

"Serves you right for leaving me alone with them," Honoria muttered. When a throat cleared behind her, she turned to the countess,

who arched a rather intimidating silver brow. "Not that I mind, of course. It's simply that, with Thea at the ripe age of

nineteen, all the talk of Seasons and matchmaking ought to be directed at her."

"I'd love to go to London," her sister volunteered, bouncing on the balls of her feet. "Just imagine all the stationers I

could visit. Not to mention all the juicy gossip for my plays. And I'm certain that something thrilling would happen every

day. Whereas, in Addlewick, my muse is dying a slow, agonizing death."

"You see? She's more than eager to go. And Mother could certainly spare her, especially after she brought the piglets into

the drawing room last week."

"Only because I learned my lesson with the chickens. And besides, it gave my pastoral comedy an aura of authenticity."

Mother cleared her throat and cast a disapproving glance to her youngest. "I'm not certain that London is quite prepared for Thea. You, on the other hand..."

The muscles along Honoria's nape and shoulders tightened. Another Season of being courted? Wooed with promises she didn't

care to hear? Gifts that... well, actually she quite liked the gifts.

However, another Season meant more expectations that she had no intention of meeting. Because she had no intention of marrying.

Ever.

The sound of three succinct knocks reverberated through the house, seeming to penetrate her skull as if someone were hammering

down the final nail in her coffin. Whack. Whack. Whack.

Backed into a corner, she knew that there was only one way to win this argument. One way to drop this matter for good. She

would have to invoke the name of Viscount Vandemere.

Even so, one could not simply blurt out the name of a man one has invented—more or less—throughout one's life. No, indeed.

Such an incantation should never be employed lightly.

Like a well-delivered line in a play, one must speak the name with reverence as if holding on to the dream of him. One must

convince the audience that, no matter what odds stand in the path of happiness, the heart will always yearn for him and him

alone.

"Mother, you are right, of course. And I would be honored to have the opportunity to be sponsored by Lady Broadbent." She

smiled at both of them, letting them have one last glimmer of matrimonial hope. And then she issued a perfectly executed sigh.

"But I fear it would come to naught. As you know, I'm already betrothed. And Grandmother made certain that it was a binding

contract which only death could sever. In truth, I cannot lawfully marry any other man aside from—"

"I beg your pardon, but there is a caller for Miss Honoria," their butler announced, his wizened eyes wide as saucers above a beak of a nose. "A gentleman."

"I shouldn't know why you appear so shocked, Mosely," Thea said on a slow exhale, the shoulders within her primrose day frock

sagging with eternal ennui. "There is always a gentleman calling for Honoria. And aside from Verity eloping with Longhurst,

nothing truly inspiring ever happens in this house. We might as well be living the same day over and over again."

Mother ignored their resident diva. "And does this gentleman have a name?"

"He does, indeed, ma'am. However, it seems..." Their butler swallowed and blinked as if to clear cobwebs from his vision.

The hesitation filled the hall with palpable anticipation. The air fairly crackled with it.

For reasons unbeknownst to Honoria, the fine gossamer tendrils against the nape of her neck lifted. A terrible suspicion skittered

over her nerves. One that would explain why Mr. Mosely appeared as though he'd just spoken to a ghost.

But no. It couldn't be , she thought. It isn't possible.

A shadow shifted behind their usually implacable butler. It filled the archway, blocking out the light filtering in from the

foyer as it limned a silhouette.

An impossibly familiar silhouette.

The weight of dread plummeted to the pit of her stomach like a stone through water. And when the figure approached, she knew...

she just knew...

"Viscount Vandemere, at your service," the caller said in a voice like raw silk as he bent his dark head in a low, courtly

bow.

Mother and the countess both gasped.

Thea withdrew a notebook from the pocket of her dress. "Now, this is interesting."

But Honoria, who usually excelled in the art of improvisation, wasn't certain what to do.

This wasn't any viscount. This was Mr. Flint, a conniving and ruthless gambler. And by the wolfish gleam in his gaze when

it alighted on her, she knew he'd come to collect a debt.

Her heart faltered, stopped, then started up again, the beats too fast to count. And there was a buzzing in her ears.

This stranger knew far too much. Things her family didn't know. Couldn't know. Things that would plunge the Hartley name back into scandal, and they hadn't even recovered from the last one yet.

She needed a moment to think.

The problem was, everyone's attention was now trained on her as if she were center stage.

The stage, she thought. Of course!

Years ago, her mother had taught her a simple tool to redirect an audience's attention when a scene wasn't going quite to

plan. "When in doubt, my dear, faint."

So that's precisely what Honoria did.