Prologue

Prologue

S cowling, Andrew Whitfield, Marquess of Kentmore, crumpled up the piece of paper and threw it onto the floor, letting it sit with the ever-growing pile of rejected pieces. The words were not coming to him and yet, he had a great desire to write and to write well. It was foolishness to become so tied up in such a thing, but Andrew could not resist the literary urge.

"If only my words would make sense," he muttered, as he shoved one hand through his hair and, after another sigh, picked up his quill again. Closing his eyes, he considered the young lady he had held in his arms only a few hours ago at the ball, reminding himself of the sweetness of her smile, of the bright light in her green eyes, of the color in her cheeks as he had swept her around the floor. That had brought him a great deal of satisfaction, of course, knowing that his presence was the cause of her flushed cheeks and warm smile but, all the same, it had not brought him what he was looking for.

"Which is why it is near enough impossible to describe it," he muttered to himself, looking down at the blank piece of paper. Yes, he could write about the beauty of a lady's face, the interest that had filled him when he had first seen her but, given that he had never experienced anything more than that, Andrew could not easily describe what it felt like to have a strong or growing affection. More than that, he could not talk about what it was like to be in love, to have one's heart touched by a sweetness that filled one's entire being – but what he could write of was the desire for such a thing. He could write about longing, about a strong and unyielding desire for something more, for something so profound, there would not be words to describe it.

Sighing, Andrew dipped his quill in the ink and began to write, his poetry spreading out across the page, speaking of desire, hope, and eagerness, using the young lady he had danced with as his muse. When it was complete, he set the quill down, read it again, read it a second time, and with a small shrug, picked up the sand to dry the ink.

It was not perfection, of course, for he was never truly satisfied with all that he had written, but it was enough.

"Not that I truly desire to fall in love and marry," he muttered to himself, rolling up the paper carefully. "That would take me away from the life I have at present – a life which I very much enjoy!"

With a smirk, he sat back in his chair and thought about the young lady he had danced with, how he had held her tight in his arms, seen her gaze up at him with hope-filled eyes, and how, thereafter, he had managed to steal a kiss from her in the shadows of the ballroom. He would do no more, of course, given that she was a proper young lady who had only just come out, but that did not mean that he could not – and would not – do the same again, with any other young ladies of his acquaintance.

"Kentmore?"

Hastily, Andrew picked up the roll of paper and, opening one of his drawers, set it in there and then closed it tightly.

"Stockton?"

"Yes, it is I. I did say that I would bring my carriage to collect you, to demand that you attend with us, did I not?" The gentleman who half-staggered, half-fell into the room grinned rather vaguely at Andrew who immediately laughed and rose from his chair. "Though I must say that your butler was a little unwilling to let me in to see you."

"That is because it is late, and I had already stated that I was to retire." Andrew moved around from his desk and put his hand on his friend's shoulder. "I shall join you at White's another evening."

"Ah, but we are not to go to White's any longer," the gentleman replied, making Andrew's eyebrows lift in surprise. "Lord Stewart – the Baron, you know, but very wealthy with it – has a soiree this evening to which, I know, Lady Beatrice has been invited."

That gave Andrew pause.

"Lady Beatrice?"

His friend chuckled a little darkly.

"Yes, indeed. And the recently widowed Lady Edmunton."

"I see." Andrew ran one hand over his chin. "Well, that does change things, does it not?"

"I thought that it might, yes," came the slightly slurred reply. "Now, shall you join us, or will you remain home and retire to bed?"

Hearing the hint of a sneer in the gentleman's voice, Andrew's smile faded, only to rush back to him as he thought of Lady Edmunton. She was a widow, and very eager indeed for his company whenever he wished it, and tonight, Andrew considered, he might very well desire her presence also.

"Yes, I think I shall attend."

"Capital!"

"For what good is being a rogue if I cannot make my presence known at as many soirees and balls as possible?" Andrew grinned, turning and leading his friend back towards the door, relieved that his poetry was safely hidden away. "I have no doubt that there will be an expectation of my presence, mayhap!"

Lord Stockton laughed aloud.

"Quite right! And you would disappoint society if you did not attend," he said, bolstering Andrew's desire to attend this soiree. "I am delighted that you are to come with us, old boy. It will be a very enjoyable evening, I am sure."

Already thinking of the way that he might pull Lady Edmunton close, or flirt with the young Lady Beatrice - who had been showing him a great deal of interest of late - Andrew found himself grinning.

"Yes, indeed," he answered, his eyes alight with sudden anticipation. "I think that it shall be a very enjoyable evening indeed."