1. Chapter One

Chapter One

London, England 1871

"D id you bring the plans?"

Silas Hayward, Viscount Winstead, feigned shock at his grandmother's rather impersonal greeting. "What sort of welcome is that?"

He bent to kiss her paper-thin cheek, his heart warming at her request. "Of course, I did."

Though he didn't know what purpose would be served in showing her.

Haywards were well known for being charming, handsome rogues, but little else. Certainly not for their brains or innovative ideas.

However, his maternal grandmother remained his champion, something he appreciated since no one else believed in him.

The grand old lady, nearing seventy-five years, thumped her cane on the floor with impatience. "Let us see."

Her white hair was carefully coiffed, her posture perfect, lending her a regal air. She was dressed impeccably, as always. She might live frugally, but she had excellent taste.

"No ‘I hope the day finds you well' or ‘how are you faring'?" he asked with a lifted brow, unable to resist teasing her. His weekly visits when she was in London were always entertaining.

She leveled him a glare. "I can see perfectly well that you are devilishly handsome and charismatic as always. That is not what interests me."

He shook his head and hid a smile. He adored the sharp remarks Mrs. Dorothy Sutton offered nearly as much as he adored her daughter, his absent-minded mother, though for completely different reasons.

His mother was a beauty, warm of heart but empty of head. She would be the first to tell anyone as much. She knew where her talents lay and had used them to make an advantageous match.

"The brains skip a generation," his grandmother often told him. "Just look at my daughter."

Silas's mother's angelic looks and sweet spirit had captured his father. Despite dire warnings from Silas's paternal grandfather about her lack of a dowry, he'd offered his name and love to the lady.

His grandfather had never forgiven Silas's father for it, though some forty years had passed since their marriage.

Meanwhile, the family's debt steadily grew, threatening to cripple the title and all its holdings. Why his great-grandfather had decided to spend without regard for future generations remained a mystery, but he'd done it in grand style.

Through the years, much of the late earl's possessions and collections had been sold. Unfortunately, it hadn't put a dent in the debt. Nor had the next generation or the one after that.

Which brought the burden to Silas to resolve. In truth, he didn't want the title or the debt. Not when the weight of it was something he couldn't escape, especially when he closed his eyes at night and panic took hold.

He had yet to determine a way out except one.

"Don't be like your father. Marry an heiress," had been his grandfather's advice before his death.

His maternal grandmother had a different idea, one that fed Silas's dream. A dream he'd tried to explain to his father without success.

Silas had but one task—marry an heiress to save the family. That had been drilled into his head from a young age.

Tossing aside the goal to pursue a crazed plan that had come to him during his university years, one he'd secretly worked on ever since, would ruin everything.

He should let it go.

How many times had he told himself as much? In a moment of weakness, he'd shared it with his maternal grandmother whose intelligence far exceeded his own. She had been astounded, her delight leaving him breathless.

Yet he wished he could take back that moment as he had come to realize neither the rest of his family nor the ton wanted a brilliant inventor among their ranks.

However, handsome, carefree rogues were welcome.

Society's expectations weren't fair. Then again, neither was life.

"Tell me about you first," Silas requested as he sank into a blue damask chair in her drawing room. "How has your week progressed?"

His grandmother scowled, but when it was clear he wouldn't succumb to her demand, she heaved a sigh and settled back in her chair. "Well enough. And you?"

She'd been careful with the small inheritance her husband had left and used it wisely, spending a significant portion on her only child's debut, a risk that had paid in spades when she'd married well. At least as far as titles went.

Silas wondered if his grandmother would've permitted the match if she'd realized how poor his father was, but that was water under the bridge.

The burden of improving the family's finances was now Silas's to bear no matter how much he wished otherwise.

"Quite well," he said. "I recently enjoyed a day at Newmarket."

"And how did the horses treat you?" she asked, eyes narrowed.

"I won the modest wager I placed."

She nodded in approval. "One cannot wager what one does not have."

"Hmm. I don't think many of the ton are aware of that rule." He knew for a fact he wasn't the only gentleman who was heiress hunting.

"As long as you are. That is all that matters." She adjusted her position in the chair. "How is your mother?"

"That is one of the reasons I came." He shook his head, worry filling him. "Still under the weather, I'm afraid." She'd come down with a troubling cough and nothing the doctor suggested had cleared it.

"Oh, dear." She frowned. "We should cancel the birthday celebration."

"Nonsense. You only turn seventy-five once, and the invitations have already been sent. Besides, it's still two weeks away."

"It will be too much for her," his grandmother said with a shake of her head.

"I have already offered to aid Mother with the planning." In truth, his mother had expressed concern as to whether she could manage the party, which showed just how poorly she felt.

Silas had reassured her that he would step in to aid her if necessary. Besides, from what she'd said, most of the planning was done. How difficult could it be to finalize any remaining details?

"You?" His grandmother's doubtful look had him stiffening in offense.

"I am capable of planning a party. Though Mother is under the weather, she can still advise me what else needs to be done."

"Are you sure?"

"I am. The matter is settled." His grandmother had been looking forward to the party for months. Several guests were traveling a fair distance for the gathering. Disappointing her was not an option when he could prevent it.

"Very well. Thank you, dear."

"You are welcome."

She waited a long moment, blue eyes holding on him with anticipation in their depths that had nothing to do with the party. "The weather has been fine, has it not?"

He laughed. "You are incorrigible. I refuse to discuss the weather." He looked over his shoulder at the doorway. "Wilson, are you nearby?"

With stately grace, his grandmother's long-time butler walked into the room holding a silver tray with a small stack of papers on it, his dark face, the color of mahogany, creased into a smile. "I am, my lord."

His grandmother's eyes widened with curiosity as she set her cane against the arm of her chair. "Over here, Wilson."

Wilson lifted a brow at Silas to gain his permission, his manner dignified, as always. The older man had been with his grandmother for as long as Silas could remember and took excellent care of her.

Silas nodded even as nerves tingled in his stomach. If his grandmother had been a man, she would be rich and powerful—she was that brilliant. However, such a path was nearly impossible for a woman now, let alone five decades ago.

"Keep in mind these are only preliminary," Silas began, hoping the revised drawings didn't disappoint her.

An idea for a new windmill design had come to him during his university years. He'd shared it with his father and grandfather, both of whom had quickly dismissed it, snuffing out any hope that he'd created a simple but unique idea to improve the effectiveness of windmills. One of his professors had agreed, crushing his hope.

"Haywards have looks and charm and little else," his grandfather had said with a shake of his head. "Put your energy toward marrying well."

Silas had tried to put aside the idea but found he couldn't. On nights when he couldn't sleep, he'd refined his plans until he was certain they'd work.

To what end, he couldn't say when he had no intention of showing them to anyone else.

"Yes, yes, you have already mentioned that," his grandmother said as she set the papers on her lap. "I am anxious to see what changes you've made."

With painfully slow intensity, she looked over his notes and drawings, one paper at a time.

Wilson returned to the room a few minutes later and cleared his throat. "Pardon the interruption, madam."

"Yes? What is it?" she asked without lifting her gaze from one of the sketches.

"Bertie."

The mention of her beloved cat was enough to gain her notice.

"What of him?"

"He's escaped. Again." The butler's pursed lips revealed his frustration with the creature who had a mind of its own.

"Oh, dear." The extent of his grandmother's alarm would've been comical in other circumstances but not this one. Her affection for the cantankerous beast was legendary.

With a resigned sigh, Silas stood. "Shall I have a look in the garden?"

Both the butler and his grandmother regarded him with such relief that he lifted a hand in protest. "I make no promises."

"He likes you, dear. I have no doubt he will come the moment he hears your voice," his grandmother insisted. "I shall be forever in your debt if you locate him."

Silas nodded. "I will do my best."

This wasn't the first time he'd been tasked with finding the blasted feline. It was a stubborn thing and would most definitely not come when Silas called.

He strode out of the drawing room and hurried down the stairs, knowing there wasn't a moment to waste. Who knew how far the cat would go if not stopped?

The warm afternoon sun had him unbuttoning his jacket and waistcoat to shrug out of them, not wanting to risk damage when he couldn't afford new ones. He left them on a bench and started down the path. "Here, kitty. Come back inside."

Whether his attempt to coax the cat to return would be successful was doubtful, but it might at least result in a meow that would signal its location.

"Bertie, where are you?" He rolled up his shirtsleeves as the day was warm and continued deeper into the garden.

A faint meow caught his attention, and he followed it to a tall oak tree in the garden. With hands on hips, he stared up at the cat perched on a high limb, tall swishing. Unfortunately, Bertie showed no interest in coming down.

Lady Prudence Davies followed her Great Aunt Edith Flowers to Mrs. Sutton's front step. Progress was slow as her aunt was far from nimble, but Prue didn't mind. She rather liked having time to admire the red poppies and yellow snapdragons lining the path.

Her visits to London always felt frantic. The busy schedule tended to fray her nerves, so taking time to visit as well as admire the garden was more than welcome.

"I'm so happy you were able to accompany me, Prudence."

"It is my pleasure." It had been well over a year since her last visit to the city which had been cut short when her older sister had delivered a baby earlier than anticipated.

Prue had departed immediately to lend aid. She hadn't wanted another Season in London anyway. Her first one three years ago had been disastrous, setting her reputation as a wallflower in stone. Why would she want to repeat the humiliating experience?

But her mother insisted she come this year with the hope of finding a husband. Prue remained doubtful. In her experience, London was filled with cruel rogues who had little regard for ladies or their feelings.

"I haven't seen Dorothy for nearly a month," her aunt said as they climbed the front steps. "I have missed our visits."

The two ladies had been dear friends since before Prue was born. Prue enjoyed their fascinating conversations, which included stories from the past, their current needlework projects, and the latest scientific advancements.

Accompanying Aunt Edith was preferable to more shopping. Prue was ready for a quiet afternoon and had her book tucked in her reticule in case the opportunity arose to sit in Mrs. Sutton's garden and read.

This Season was going to be different, she told herself. She was determined to partake in more of the activities she enjoyed and worry less about catching the eye of a man, despite her mother's ideas. With a lift of her chin, she reminded herself that she was no young debutante who could be tricked by a handsome face or an engaging smile.

If she truly did have to marry, she would much prefer a plainer sort of man with a fine mind and depth to his personality. However, she had already determined she would not be averse to remaining unmarried. Two of her many aunts were spinsters and led fulfilling lives.

She ignored the pang of regret that speared through her at the thought of never having a family of her own. Now that she was more mature—one and twenty—well educated and had traveled to the Continent with one of those aunts, she considered herself worldly enough to choose her own future.

Unfortunately, none of those qualities had improved her confidence when it came to facing another Season. Her mother assured her this year would provide the remaining "polish" she needed. Polish made Prue think of armor. Perhaps her mother was right. Surely any added defense would serve her well.

Prue raised the doorknocker, smiling when the familiar butler opened it.

"Lady Prudence and Miss Flowers. How delightful." Wilson bowed, his broad smile suggesting he was pleased to see them. "Do come in." He opened the door wide and bid them to wait while he made certain Mrs. Sutton was receiving.

He quickly returned to show them into the drawing room where Mrs. Sutton sat with an impressive pile of papers on her lap.

"Ladies, how lovely to see you." Mrs. Sutton started to lift the documents out of the way to stand to greet them, but Aunt Edith waved a hand to stop her.

"Do not stir on our account, Dorothy." She reached for Mrs. Sutton's hand to squeeze it in greeting before sitting in the chair next to their host.

"Prudence, you are just in time," Mrs. Sutton said. "I am in need of assistance."

"I would be pleased to offer it if I can."

"My grandson is searching the garden at this very minute for Bertie. I don't suppose you could lend a hand?"

"Of course." She adored Bertie and had a cat of her own at home in the country. However, she had yet to meet Mrs. Sutton's grandson, though she'd heard numerous stories about him from his proud grandmother. In Mrs. Sutton's eyes, he could do no wrong. She set her reticule on a chair and removed her gloves and cloak. "I shall do my best."

The butler escorted her to the garden door, and she stepped into the beautiful garden. Neat rows of dahlias and primroses reached for the sun. Several wrought-iron benches were tucked among the bushes and made her long for her book. For now, she walked along the path only to still when a muffled oath rent the air. The sight of a form falling from a tall oak tree had her rushing forward.

"Oh, dear." She hurried toward the unmoving figure sprawled on the ground, relieved when he moaned. "Lord Winstead, are you well?"

The man briefly lifted his head to look at her; his mouth moved but no sound escaped.

She knelt at his side, searching for injury. Her stomach fluttered at how very handsome Mrs. Sutton's grandson was even if he had not yet uttered a word. His dark hair held a hint of wave, one lock resting on his forehead. High cheekbones and a patrician nose lent his tanned face strength and symmetry. Long lashes framed brown eyes that stared at her in confusion.

"Are you hurt?" she asked, then once again scanned his body for a broken limb or twisted ankle.

His white linen shirt clung to his broad shoulders and slim torso. Rolled-up shirtsleeves left his powerful forearms covered in dark hair visible. She blushed at his state of undress but saw no obvious wound.

"Shall I fetch help?" she tried again, worry mounting at his inability to speak.

He shook his head gingerly and gasped, a hint of panic glittering in his dark eyes.

Sympathy welled within her. "You must've had the wind knocked from you. Never a pleasant feeling." She patted his shoulder with the hope of reassuring him. "Shorter breaths seem to help."

He did as she suggested with some success.

"That's better," she encouraged him. "Try to relax. The feeling should quickly pass." She looked over his body again, trying not to notice powerful thighs in buff-colored trousers. "Do you think you broke anything?"

He frowned as if displeased by the thought then slowly moved his hands and arms before testing his feet and legs. He moved those broad shoulders, grimacing as he did so. "I—I don't think so."

The deep timbre of his raspy voice sent a shiver over her skin, though she couldn't imagine why.

"W—who are you?" he asked, his breath coming more easily.

"Lady Prudence. My great aunt is a friend of your grandmother's."

"I see." He nodded as he drew a deeper breath. "How kind of you to come to my rescue." His lopsided smile caused her mouth to go dry and alarm bells to ring.

She didn't trust handsome men with crooked grins, especially not charming ones.

He shifted to his elbows, the movement drawing his shirt taut and showing his muscled form to perfection.

Dear heaven . She jerked her gaze away as a blush heated her cheeks.

Oblivious to her reaction, Lord Winstead sat up, taking care to move slowly. "I don't believe I broke anything other than my pride." He scowled up at the tree.

Just then, Bertie meowed, and Prudence glanced up to see him swishing his tail, glaring at the man with displeasure. "Shame on you, Bertie. Come down at once."

The cat meowed again. Prudence rose and leveled him a firm stare. "Now, Bertie."

Bertie jumped effortlessly down from one limb to the next until he was within reach.

"There's a good boy." Prue lifted onto her toes to pluck him from the tree and cradle him in her arms, running a hand over his fur. "Shame on you for escaping. You know Mrs. Sutton worries when you do."

The cat purred in response and settled into her arms.

Lord Winstead shook his head as he gained his feet, arching his back and twisting his body to check for damage. "You are far better with felines than I."

Holding Bertie was a welcome distraction from Lord Winstead's fine looks, especially in his half-undressed state. "Are you certain you're not hurt?"

"A few bruises and a sore rib or two." He touched his side, and she imagined what his bare torso might look like given the hint of it through his shirt. He reached out a finger toward her, and her heart pounded at just what he intended.

"Bertie, you have always had a mind of your own." He rubbed the side of the cat's face which pressed into his touch.

She rather envied the cat at that moment.

Lord Winsted glanced up at the tree again. "My own fault. I placed my weight on a limb when I shouldn't have. Before I knew it, I was falling."

Prue followed his gaze, relieved to look at something other than him. "It is a tall tree. You are quite lucky you weren't hurt."

"Lucky?" He offered another careless smile, causing her stomach to dip. The man was trouble with a capital T. "That's not a trait anyone in my family can normally claim."

Uncertain as to his meaning, she held her silence. Why did she feel as if he used that smile to keep others at arm's length? To show the world he was carefree without a worry when that wasn't exactly the truth?

He gestured toward the path. "Shall we return Bertie inside and advise my grandmother?"

"Most definitely." Prue buried her nose in the feline's soft fur, trying to regain her breath. Odd, but she almost felt as if she were the one who'd fallen.