Prologue

PROLOGUE

London, 1814

Marjorie's best ideas came in the thick of the night.

Stealing away from her parents' party with the Viscount Chadwick probably wasn't going to be considered one of them.

Still, she stifled a giggle and dashed down the darkened hallway as all six feet of the handsome man lumbered forward in a crooked mask to match the grin on his face.

"Slow down, Margie."

She frowned. She hated that name. Almost as much as she hated someone telling her what to do.

" Ssh , we'll be caught if you don't hurry up."

With a quick glance down the hallway, she leaned against her bedchamber door, her heart thudding in her chest. She was lovestruck, clearly, to ever permit this. Her bedroom was her sanctuary, even while her parents threw another one of their legendary parties.

Actors and actresses, clowns and monkeys, sheiks and Russian czars—the guest lists were almost as unbelievable as her lack of judgment right now. She was a wallflower, not someone who would consider a reckless dalliance with a charming lord.

But this lord?

Maybe she could make an exception.

"What's the harm in it when we are to be married?" he asked, backing her up against the door and leaning down as if to kiss her.

Marjorie made a small squeak in the back of her throat and opened the door, spinning to give them space.

"Well?" she asked, standing inside her darkened bedchamber. She was thankful he couldn't see the blush burning on the apples of her cheeks. "You keep telling me about this wedding of ours, but you've failed to ask me—or my father, for that matter."

He tipped his head up slightly, gazing down at her. Even in the dim firelight, his brown eyes burned her.

"You know I must sort things out with the estate first."

She balled her fists, fighting back the stab of jealousy blooming in her chest. The damn man loved his family's crumbling home more than her. That must be it, otherwise she couldn't think of a good enough reason why he would continue courting her secretly these past two years.

"Percy," she warned. Marjorie reached out and grasped his hand, hauling him into her bedchamber and peeking out into the hall before closing the door shut.

They might have escaped for now, but she didn't know for how long.

"Why are you here?" she finally asked as the silence stretched between them.

He shrugged, fussing with his mask.

Please, keep it on. Please.

Too late. With one swift tug, he removed his mask, and she swore all her usual stony defenses crumbled.

"You were tired of the party. Asked to retreat to some place quiet. I am, as always, here to do as you wish, you sweet wallflower."

She objected to that nickname as well but kept it to herself.

Just because she preferred her room to the chaos of growing up in the famous Merryweather acting family didn't change the fact it was also necessary to protect her secret.

Miss Marjorie Merryweather, daughter, twin, and yes, wallflower—was also a successful gothic novelist. For three years, she published under a male pseudonym, fearful of the fallout if anyone ever discovered the truth.

But she would need to tell Percy if they were to be married.

She was sick of spending hours locked away in her room until her fingers were stained black and her eyes bleary from lack of sleep, pretending as if she were living her most exciting adventure with no one else to tell.

First her career, then Percy. Too many secrets.

"I must tell you something," she said, swallowing down her nerves.

He would understand. He wouldn't reject her for this. Percy was a man of words, his nose always stuck in a book. It was part of the reason why the family estate was crumbling. He much preferred books and poetry, and she thought their souls might understand one another.

Twin flames.

Percy tilted his head, scrubbing his hand through his golden blond hair and brushing it back. She loved how he smelled of ink and wine and books. It was almost sacred, a call home as it were.

"Can I tell you one?" he asked.

She clasped her hands and backed away, shaking her head. He didn't need to say a word for her to understand what he wanted to share.

"Please, kiss me, Margie."

"You haven't proposed," she squeaked out. "And I am not?—"

"Do you want me to? You need me to perform a romantic speech, or do I keep it strictly business? Do you want me to tell you how you've driven me mad since the moment I spotted you across that crowded salon?—"

"I was writing. I didn't see you for half the night."

He nodded, taking a large step forward. "You and your ink-covered hands. You silly woman. Don't you understand?"

She shook her head, this time remaining still, refusing to retreat even as her pulse drummed in her ears.

"Allow me to kiss you. Tell me you will wait for me."

Marjorie couldn't think. Couldn't hear past her heart as he stepped closer, and she reached out for his vest, gingerly laying her hands upon him.

He ducked down to kiss her, and she closed her eyes before stepping to the side.

"I write. I'm a writer."

He groaned, tossing his head up toward the ceiling. "Yes, I know you love to write your little stories."

"No," she cleared her throat, holding her hand out to stall his advance. "I am an author. A published author."

His head snapped to hers. "Published?"

She ignored the way the tiny hairs on her arms stood up as gooseflesh broke out over her skin. Marjorie pushed past the sour taste in her mouth and spun, marching to her desk to grab a copy of her latest published work, then shoved it in his hands.

Percy squinted, holding the book gingerly, first opening the cover, then flipping it over to examine it.

"It's a whole novel, I promise. Nothing untoward."

"Published," he repeated. "Like M. E. Gastrell? I love his novels."

"Percy." She reached out and grabbed her novel, suddenly wishing to use it as a shield between herself and her maybe someday soon betrothed. "I am M. E. Gastrell. That is what I must tell you."

He tossed his head back and guffawed before bending in half and placing his hands on his knees to catch his breath. She was of half a mind to whack him over the head then with her novel. There was nothing funny about this secret.

"If you laughing sees me ruined…"

He glanced up and grinned. "You're worried about some actress finding us? What will happen, Margie, when your parents discover you are a famous Gothic novelist? What then?" He stood and stretched his hand out, still chuckling as if stuck in disbelief. "Better yet, what of the on-dits ? Marjorie Merryweather, the strange little wallflower who parades around the countryside talking to her raven?—"

"Hey now," she bristled. "You can leave Benny out of this." Had he called her strange?

Marjorie returned her book to her desk and crossed her arms, frustrated she had only moments before she thought she would kiss Percy. Now, she not only regretted ever telling him her secrets, she also didn't want to kiss him.

"You should return before anyone notices you are gone," she said diplomatically, pointing toward the door. "Do not tell a soul about my secret, so help me?—"

"I want you to be my wife, pet." He reached for her, but she remained still, assessing him. "Are you working on another manuscript right now?" he asked, leaning around her to the stack of paper on her desk.

She shuffled her feet, foolish as it may be to attempt to block his view. "Good evening, Percy."

"Will you let me read it?"

"Will you ask me to be your wife, or must we continue parading around London with this secret of ours?"

"You seem to be very good at keeping them."

"I hope you can be as well."

"One kiss?"

A kiss? A kiss after calling her strange and laughing at her while she revealed the biggest part of herself to him?

"Not tonight, Percy."

With a large sigh, he shrugged his shoulders and slipped out of her room. She remained behind, ready to have her maid help her undress for the evening, when she spotted his mask on the floor. She picked it up, standing there with its weight in her palm, before folding it up and tucking it into the drawer of her desk.