Prologue

PROLOGUE

AUTUMN 1816, THE DUCHESS OF NORTHRIDING'S BALL

Number one

Isabella was excited, arriving in Grosvenor Square and climbing the steps to enter the mansion between rows of tall footmen in black and silver livery. It had been dark for hours, and flickering torches struck gleams of light from the jewels and costly gold lace that adorned the Duchess's distinguished guests, and from their avid eyes. The air of anticipation was almost palpable.

Isabella was sure, though, that her internal turmoil must be of quite a different order from the emotions of the other guests. They were there to dance, to observe and to gossip, perhaps to flirt; she had so much more at stake. But that was a dangerous way to think, and liable to make her panic. She was all too aware of her growing agitation and told herself sternly and silently that she must suppress it. She had made a plan, and she was about to set about its execution, that was all. She scanned the crowd eagerly but surreptitiously for him, conversing with her companions and greeting acquaintances in a mechanical sort of way, and paying very little attention to her opulent surroundings, familiar as they were. She'd spent part of her honeymoon in this impressive mansion, not so very long ago.

Isabella – or, to give her the proper title, Lady Ashby Mauleverer – was not yet twenty-two, but she was a widow. Her husband, Lord Ashby, second son of the Eighth Duke of Northriding and brother of the Ninth, had died at Waterloo. Had died in her arms the day after the battle, in fact, and the shock of his death and the horrifying manner of it had caused Isabella to enter a dark time, a period lasting a year or more which she preferred not to remember, certainly not to dwell on. She had recovered, though, with the support of her family and the most modern and humane medical aid, and one of the things that had helped her to do so was a private resolution she had made: to take control of her life. That was the purpose of her plan. After a long time in which she had not even been able to decide whether to rise or stay in bed, what to wear, what to eat or how to spend the day, she would be in charge. If her plan worked, completely in charge.

She had been discharged from her doctor's care in the summer, and now it was autumn. Against the wishes of her parents, who persisted in seeing her as fragile and probably always would, she had come to London to stay with her sister-in-law, Lady Blanche FitzHenry, and tonight she was attending a grand ball at Mauleverer House, which her brother-in-law Gabriel and his bride Georgiana were giving to celebrate their marriage a couple of months ago. This was the perfect occasion to set her scheme in motion because she was confident that not a single one of the guests present tonight would be looking at her or noticing what she did. She had been something of a novelty in a small way when she had first emerged into London society: a young and quite well-off widow – her jointure was ample, and would not cease if she remarried – undeniably well-connected, and not unattractive, she supposed. Ash had found her beautiful, had told her so a thousand times – no, she would not think about Ash now, she must not. But she had attended many parties and other events over the last few weeks, had done nothing at all to provoke any comment, yet, and any interest that the sensation-loving ladies and gentlemen of the haut ton had been disposed to show in her had waned.

She – and every other topic of gossip that summer and autumn – had been eclipsed by the far more fascinating subject of Gabriel and Georgiana and the thrilling, scandalous circumstances of their recent union. This suited Isabella very well, and she felt herself to be as good as invisible in the crowded silver and white ballroom, which was already full almost to the point of discomfort with loudly chattering persons dressed in the very height of fashion. Lady Jersey was close by, conversing with Lady Sefton in the genteel sort of shriek that was necessary to make oneself heard above the din. Isabella was truly surrounded by the very cream of the polite world – it seemed that even those who had been absent from London this autumn had returned for this most intriguing of events, and there was a hum of expectation as the music struck up.

The newly married Duke and Duchess took to the floor and opened the dancing, both of them dark and glamorous and endlessly fascinating, their love for each other written plainly on their faces, and Isabella's hand was, as she had hoped, solicited for her first set by Captain Leo Winterton.

He was tall, broad-shouldered, handsome; he also looked nothing at all like Ash. The first part wasn't terribly important, or shouldn't be, but the second part was. Isabella was aware that the execution of her plan would surely remind her of her husband, and she was resigned to the inevitability of that. There was no need to make things worse by choosing a man who resembled Ash in any way. Lord Ashby had been tall, like all his family, but he had also been dark, his black hair prematurely streaked with silver, his eyes a striking shade of silver too. His older brother the Duke resembled him greatly, and in the early stages of her bereavement, Isabella had found it hard to look at Gabriel, and especially to see little quirks of expression, little mannerisms, that the brothers had shared. She had reason to be proud that she had been able to put all that behind her now and meet Gabriel with composure – she had just done so, not half an hour since – but it would be foolish to tempt fate by choosing a tall, dark, grey-eyed man to help her execute her scheme.

Captain Leo Winterton was by contrast fair, as fair as she was, and his eyes were a clear blue, his complexion tanned by his years at sea. He seemed sunny-natured, of a cheerful, light-hearted disposition, and again this was unlike Ash, who had been intense, serious, though never humourless. The two men were perhaps similar in height and build, but in casting her eyes over her possibilities (this was a different list; Isabella was quite addicted to lists), she had discovered in herself a natural preference for a tall man, and she could not see any harm in indulging it. Although there was no possibility of what she planned leading to anything lasting, it was most necessary that she found the man attractive. And she did. She was prepared to admit as much to herself, though of course to nobody else. Hence, perhaps, her excitement tonight.

He smiled down at her as they danced, and they conversed of nothing in particular, but in a comfortable, easy fashion. They had only recently become acquainted, during the past few weeks of Isabella's stay in London, and they were in a sense related, if only distantly and by marriage, since Captain Winterton was Georgiana's first cousin, and Georgiana was now Isabella's sister-in-law and Gabriel's new Duchess. There was a certain safety, she thought, in choosing someone who was in some sense a member of the family and therefore unlikely, if it turned out that he greatly disapproved of her scheme, to spread dangerous gossip. Isabella did not much care if she became the subject of society murmurs once her plan was successful, not on her own account, as she did not intend to stay in London beyond this short visit, but she had no desire to embarrass Ash's sister Blanche, who had been nothing but good to her. And if her parents came to hear of it, which she devoutly hoped they never would, she knew it would hurt them, and heaven knows they had been hurt and worried enough already since her bereavement.

When the set ended, she cast down her eyes and said, ‘I feel a little unwell – the heat of the room… Would you escort me somewhere cooler, sir?'

The Captain was instantly all solicitude, and she felt a little guilty. ‘You do look pale, ma'am. Can I fetch my cousin or Lady Blanche…?'

‘No!' she blurted out, alarmed. That would not suit her purposes at all. And then, in gentler tones, ‘If you could give me your arm and take me out into the garden for a moment… It's just beyond the end of the entrance hall, on the right, through the furthest door. I do not want to make a fuss or attract unwelcome attention, and I should hate to spoil the party for anyone.' This much was true.

Isabella knew the house well, and soon they had pushed through the press of people; in a moment or two they were outside. If she'd really been unwell, she'd probably have swooned long since in the heat and the crowd, but luckily she wasn't. It was indeed much cooler out here, which was no great surprise given that it was October, and Captain Winterton was about to express concern that it might be too cold for a lady's delicate constitution after the heat inside, she thought, when she forestalled him by melting into his arms. She did this by essentially flinging herself at his chest and putting her gloved hands upon it to cling to him – it was a little awkward since he was not in the least expecting it. As chests went, it really was agreeably broad and firmly muscled, she noticed in passing as she clung.

He was taken aback. The courtyard garden was not well-lit, illuminated as it was only by the light that spilt out from the ballroom windows that overlooked it, but she could see an expression of puzzlement upon his handsome features. He did not appear disgusted by her proximity, but he was surprised by it, certainly. ‘You are unwell, ma'am,' he said, ‘I cannot think you mean…'

But his strong arms came around her, as if by instinct – perhaps he thought she would fall if he did not support her, and in that instant, she thought perhaps she might – and she looked up at him and said, ‘I am perfectly well. I am sorry for deceiving you, but I could not think of any other way of ensuring that we should be alone. I was hoping, you see, that you might kiss me.'

‘You… were?'

‘Yes,' she said. He was still holding her, which was good, but he wasn't kissing her, which was excessively disappointing. ‘I thought you wanted to, but I fear I was mistaken.'

‘Oh no,' he said, and she thought she saw a ghost of a smile cross his face. ‘No, you weren't mistaken.' And he bent his head, and his lips found hers.

He was very gentle at first, but it was pleasant, it was more than pleasant, and when she opened her mouth a little in encouragement, he was not slow to respond. His lips were warm and soft and his breath was sweet. He smelled good, he felt good. He held her tightly in the shadows, though his hands did not explore her body, and he kissed her very thoroughly, and she kissed him back with great enthusiasm, and only a tiny little corner of her brain thought, Ash will no longer be the last man I kissed, or the only man I ever kissed. But that was part of the point, so she repressed the fugitive thought, and gave herself up to the sensual enjoyment of the moment and the comfort of being held in a strong embrace after so long.

When at last he drew away from her a little, but only a little, she looked up at him and was glad to see that his eyes were dark with desire and his face soft with pleasure and a sort of wonder.

‘Lady Ashby, Isabella…' he said, his voice low and drugged with sensation. It was rather thrilling to think that she had had this effect on him, especially since she found herself not unaffected too. ‘I did not intend or expect…'

‘I know you didn't,' she said, and she was surprised to hear her voice emerge as a sensual sort of sigh, almost a moan. This would never do. ‘I know you didn't,' she repeated more firmly. It was important to be business-like, to keep her head, to take control. ‘But I did.'

‘I realise that now,' he said, his ready humour warming his voice. ‘Did you – I apologise if this is too strong a word, but I am in a sorry state of confusion and can think of no better – did you bring me here with the intention of seducing me, ma'am?'

‘No! Well, yes, I suppose so,' she conceded in a spirit of fair-mindedness. ‘But you liked kissing me, didn't you? It wasn't in any way disagreeable to you?' She knew he'd liked it; his body had betrayed exactly how much, but she thought it best not to mention that just now. It would be crude, unladylike, and although Ash had not objected to a little plain speaking in such matters, her experience did not extend beyond him and she could not tell if Captain Winterton might feel the same or not. If her plan worked, she would find out. She could not suppress a delicious little shudder at the thought.

He was still holding her close, his hands about her waist, and her arms, it seemed, had crept up around his neck, and were still there. It was a little awkward now, but it hardly seemed the moment to remove them. ‘It was very far from being disagreeable,' he said. ‘It was rather wonderful, in fact. I hope you liked it too…?'

‘Oh yes,' she said a little breathlessly. ‘I liked it very much. I thought I would, and I was glad to be right. Because I have a proposition to put to you, sir. I have a list.'