Chapter 1

CHAPTER 1

London, April, 1816

G wendolen Price’s stomach churned from a combination of anxiety and anticipation as she and her mother neared the fabled entrance to Almack’s. Gwen had long dreamed of this night, of making a triumphant entrance into this hallowed place where she would be anointed a diamond of the Season.

Her father, arriving later, would nod at her with pride in his dark gaze, and her mother would beam with the same emotion. Gwen would not trip or knock her elbow into anyone, and she would absolutely not bore those she met with a description of the latest novel she’d devoured.

The latter was much easier than the former. Although, both could be extremely difficult, especially given Gwen’s nerves. She wanted so badly to impress people and, most importantly, to make her parents proud. Sometimes, she forgot to modulate her speech and her movements, and that was when disaster happened.

She’d executed her presentation to the queen with a shocking grace. Right up until her headdress had listed sideways. In her efforts to right it, she’d bumped into the young lady she’d been standing next to, causing her to fall into the young lady next to her, and so on, for several young ladies. It had caused a stir, all while other young ladies were still being presented. The queen had halted the proceeding until Gwen could get her headdress back on straight, which had required help from her mother and someone else’s mother.

Then there were the two balls she’d attended thus far this Season. At the first, she’d forgotten not to talk about books. But it hadn’t been her fault. She’d been so bored! At the second, she’d danced twice, and both sets had been riddled with her stepping on others’ feet or running into them as she moved the wrong way. Then after she’d been holding up the wall for over an hour, a gentleman had finally asked her to promenade, for which she was most grateful. She could walk without incident. Usually. Unless she waved her arms as she talked animatedly or looked at her companion instead of where she was going. Which was precisely what had happened.

She’d been so excited by her discussion—about books, naturally—with her companion that she’d failed to see the Dowager Duchess of Sale, and she’d marched straight into the seventy-some-year-old woman, nearly knocking her down. Thankfully, her companion had moved quickly and saved the dowager from certain doom. Gwen and her mother had gone home after that.

Somehow, despite all that, Gwen had obtained a voucher to Almack’s. Her mother had called in every favor, and Gwen’s father had used his position in the Treasury to apply pressure to those who could help his daughter gain the patronesses’ notice—and in a positive way. Miraculously, Lady Sefton, who was generally seen as the kindest of the ladies who sat in judgment over who was admitted, issued her an invitation. But only for the month of April, not the entire Season. It appeared to be a test, and Gwen vowed she was going to pass it.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” her mother asked. “You haven’t even practiced dancing in the past week since Monsieur Leclerc ceased your lessons.”

Gwen cringed inwardly in reference to the third dancing master who’d decided Gwen was hopeless, that she would never become an accomplished dancer. He’d only lasted a fortnight, the briefest one yet. “I have practiced, Mama. With Badge.”

“Your maid does not signify as a dancing partner.” Mama shook her head, but a smile teased her mouth. “You do try so very hard, my darling. I am sorry this isn’t easier for you.”

The coach came to a full stop. “Dancing may not be my forte, but I have other skills. It’s really too bad I can’t display my watercolors when I attend a ball.” She exhaled as the door opened. It was time to go inside.

A footman helped her mother to descend, then provided the same assistance to Gwen. Taking a deep breath, Gwen walked to the entrance with her mother and sent up a silent prayer that nothing horrible would happen. Not tonight.

“Last chance to change your mind,” her mother said, glancing over at her. Gwen’s mother was incredibly beautiful, with rich sable hair without a single strand of gray, luminous hazel-brown eyes, and satiny olive skin. Though Gwen had the same hair, she was paler in coloring and her eyes were solidly brown. Uninterestingly flat brown without Mama’s green and gold flecks. “We can always retreat to Bath,” Mama added.

The question of whether Gwen ought to have a London Season or a Bath Season had been long discussed. Her readiness for London had been in question for several years, and so Gwen had asked for more time to attain additional polish. Finally, her parents had relented last summer and agreed she would debut in London this year. Unfortunately, things had not gone well, but Gwen was determined that would change.

“I’m not ready for that,” Gwen said firmly. She knew her mother had her best interests at heart. She didn’t want Gwen to feel bad or as though she had failed. But Gwen just wanted her parents to be proud of her, and for that reason, she was going to be a success.

“I love you,” Mama said with a soft smile. “No matter what.”

“I love you too, Mama. And if tonight is a disaster, I will reconsider. It’s not going to be, though. Tonight will be spectacular .”

It was not spectacular. It was, instead, spectacularly boring.

One hour into her arrival, Gwen had not yet been asked to dance. Some young ladies making their debut had at least one dance arranged for them by the patronesses, but Gwen had not received that benefit. She assumed everyone knew her to be a poor dancing partner.

She turned to her mother, who didn’t appear at all troubled by Gwen’s lack of partners, but then Mama excelled at looking serene. “I’m going to have a glass of orgeat. Do you want any?”

Her mother’s nose wrinkled. “I would advise against it. I thought I mentioned how ghastly sour it tastes here.”

“You did, but I’m thirsty, and it seems as though I need to discover the vileness for myself.”

Chuckling, Gwen’s mother inclined her head toward the supper rooms. “Help yourself, then. And Gwen, do not be concerned that you haven’t danced. We arrived very early.”

That much was true. The ballroom had been far emptier when they’d first arrived. Over the past hour, many people had flowed in, but the space was still not a crush. Indeed, Gwen’s father and brother had not yet arrived, nor had she seen any of her friends.

Gwen made her way along the edge of the ballroom, careful to avoid catching her elbow on anyone. Inside the supper room, the crowd was sparse. It could not even be called a crowd. Most everyone present was either dancing or gathered along the periphery of the ballroom, situated on couches as they conversed.

As she walked to the table holding the orgeat, Gwen’s evening gown swirled about her. She glanced down at the peach silk and was glad she at least looked the part of a young Society lady, even if she didn’t embody her.

Apparently, her glance down lasted longer than an actual glance, for when she raised her gaze, she nearly strode directly into a gentleman.

“Careful there,” the Viscount Somerton said.

Gwen exhaled with relief, glad her near collision was with someone she knew. The viscount, broad shouldered with gloriously blond hair and a dazzling smile, was a good friend of her brother’s. She’d spent time with Somerton in Weston, where she and her mother—and her brother this past year—whiled away the month of August with friends near the sea. Somerton and her brother, along with others, spent a great deal of their time at the Grove, an estate owned by the Duke of Henlow. His two children, the Earl of Shefford and Lady Minerva, stayed there in August. Min was a dear friend of Gwen’s. Indeed, she was one of the friends who had not yet arrived this evening.

“My apologies, my lord,” Gwen said, dipping a brief curtsey. Though her grandfather was a viscount, she was not a member of the peerage herself.

“You needn’t use such formality with me,” Somerton said with a wave of his gloved hand. “No curtseying permitted.” He winked at her, his roguishness on full display.

A year and a half ago, Gwen and her friends had drafted “rogue rules,” a guide for steering clear of rakish gentlemen and their scandalous behavior. It had been the result of one of them falling prey to an especially horrid scoundrel. The Earl of Banemore, once a member of that elite group of male friends who gathered at the Grove, had ruined Gwen’s friend Pandora Barclay. Pandora had expected a marriage proposal, but when she and Bane had been caught in a compromising position, he’d informed her that he was already betrothed to someone else. Someone he’d married not long after that awful occurrence.

The rogue rules had seemed vital to their own protection, and they generally adhered to them most strictly. For Gwen, she was especially careful with the first two: not to be alone with a rogue and not to flirt with one. Not that she’d had occasion to do either of those. The third was to never give a rogue a chance, which she meant to follow, but about which she was admittedly skeptical. Two of their set, Pandora’s sister Persephone and Tamsin, now the Duchess of Wellesbourne and the Lady Droxford, had married supposed rogues. Though, Tamsin’s husband was really only a rogue by association, and it didn’t seem fair to characterize him as one.

Somerton, however, was most definitely a rogue. He flirted with ease, and charm seemed to drip from his every word and gaze. Gwen wondered if giggling and swooning had originated with women who spent time with knaves such as him. She had no trouble believing it.

“It’s hard not to curtsey,” Gwen said. “We are at Almack’s, and I am trying to make a good impression.”

“Well, I’d say you’re doing a fine job.” He regarded her intently, his gaze sweeping her from the top of her headdress to the tip of her slipper peeking from the hem of her gown. “You look lovely. Peach is a very fetching color on you.”

“Thank you. That means a great deal coming from you.” Gwen had noticed that the viscount possessed a sharp sense for fashion. Of all the gentlemen who gathered in Weston every August, he always seemed the most ready to saunter into a London ballroom.

Tonight, he was impeccably outfitted in a dark green coat, black breeches, a gold embroidered waistcoat, and impossibly glossy Hessians. He laughed at her comment. “Does it? I can’t imagine my opinion is all that vital, but I am glad to offer it, and you do look most ravishing.” His mouth twisted. “Forget I said that. Poor word choice for a friend’s sister. You look very pretty.”

Gwen smiled. “Thank you again, and I won’t tell Evan what you said. I’m going to get a glass of orgeat. Do you want to join me?”

He made a face. “That noxious brew? I’d rather inhale beetles.”

She blinked. “That’s a rather…specific alternative.”

Leaning close, he spoke in a low tone. “I inhaled a beetle once. I was about eight years old. The insect was on my horse, and as I was riding, it somehow came loose from the animal, caught the wind, and I sucked it directly into my mouth. It was absolutely revolting.”

Gwen’s mouth opened, but she snapped it closed as she considered the horror of a bug being sucked inside. “That’s perhaps the worst anecdote I’ve ever heard.”

“Which is why I’m telling you in confidence.” He arched his brows and gave her a mischievous smile.

It occurred to Gwen that he might actually be flirting, but could one really flirt about inhaling a beetle? Or with a friend’s cousin? Somerton was cousin to Gwen’s dear friend Tamsin.

“I’m bound for the ballroom,” Somerton said, straightening. “I won’t be staying much longer, but if you’d care to dance the next set, I’d be happy to partner you.”

Gwen stared at him. “Truly?” Her eyes narrowed slightly. “Is this a pity dance?”

He cocked his head to the side, and his hesitation answered her question.

“It’s all right,” she said. “I’m not above accepting that. As you can see, I’m rather desperate.”

“You don’t look desperate to me,” he said softly, with kindness in his eyes. “You look like a young lady who deserves to dance.”

“Thank you.”

“I’ll search you out in a bit.” He gave her a swift, shallow bow and departed for the ballroom. Appreciating the viscount’s kindness, Gwen went to take a cup of orgeat from the table. She took a sip, and good heavens, sour was not a strong enough description. It was bitter. Like the heart of a woman scorned.

Pandora again came to mind, and Gwen instantly refused to compare her drink to one of her friends.

She returned to the ballroom, her mind on Pandora and whether she would ever recover from the scandal enough to reenter Society or find a husband. Though, Gwen was fairly certain she didn’t want the latter. So far, she didn’t particularly want the former, and Gwen couldn’t blame her.

Somehow, Gwen forgot how awful the orgeat tasted and took another drink as she walked into the ballroom. Her eyes squeezed shut as she forced herself to swallow the acrid liquid. In that barest moment, disaster struck. And it wasn’t a near collision.

She walked straight into a gentleman, spilling her repellant beverage onto his immaculate blue coat and canary-yellow waistcoat. The remainder sloshed toward the floor, splashing his shiny Hessians and the lower part of her skirt.

“Watch where you’re going!” the gentleman declared, his gloved hand brushing at the droplets clinging to his front. “You may well have ruined this waistcoat. It’s silk . And I just picked it up from Savile Row this very afternoon.”

Gwen cringed and waved her hands as if she meant to help him tidy himself, but stopped herself from doing so. What that did, however, was splash the remainder of the contents of her orgeat onto the man’s waistcoat. Horrified, she stared at the stain darkening the canary silk. “I’m so sorry.”

He sputtered. “You’re a menace!” Then he stalked off.

Pivoting on her slipper, Gwen took a step after him—what was she going to do?—and promptly slipped. She’d put her new slipper, the soles of which were still quite smooth, directly on the spilled liquid, and there was simply no help for it. She was going to fall.

Her foot slid forward, and her arms windmilled as she fell to her backside. Her skirts rose to her knees, exposing her lower legs. Somehow, she managed to keep hold of the stupid, now quite empty, cup.

While the music kept on, every other sound in the ballroom seem to grind to a halt. Certainly, the conversation stopped. A brief glance around revealed that everyone in Gwen’s vicinity was now staring at her. She hurriedly brushed her skirts down her legs, frantically working to cover her exposed calves and ankles. Heat flooded her neck and face. She prayed her mother wasn’t watching, but of course she was. Instead, Gwen prayed her father and brother hadn’t yet arrived.

A strong hand gripped her arm and put a hand to her back. “Permit me to help you,” the man murmured, his voice familiar.

Gwen turned her head and saw the arresting features of the Viscount Somerton, his green eyes fixed intently—and sympathetically—on her, his jaw firm, his lips impossibly supple. Could a man have supple lips? Regardless, Somerton did.

He helped her swiftly and effortlessly to her feet, then took the empty cup from her. In a fluid movement, he deposited the vessel on a tray of a footman standing against the wall. The viscount’s actions were so graceful, so easily maneuvered that Gwen wanted to weep with envy.

“Time for our dance,” he said, sweeping her toward the dance floor.

“But it’s the middle of a set.”

“It’s a line. We can simply insert ourselves.” He gave her a confident smile, and Gwen had to bite back an absurd laugh.

“It might be simple for you,” she muttered as he guided her to the end of the line of ladies.

“Never fear,” he whispered. “We are late enough joining that we may not even have a turn before the set ends.”

She snapped her gaze to his, a rush of gratitude flowing over her. “You are brilliant,” she whispered.

Inexplicably, a shadow passed over his features. “I’m not. Understanding the mechanics and timing of a dance doesn’t signify above-average intelligence, but I appreciate you thinking so.” He flashed a smile, and she wondered if she’d imagined the momentary darkness.

Unfortunately, their turn came up before the set ended, and Somerton did his best to keep Gwen from losing her balance or bumping into someone. She managed fairly well, though her dancing would never be called elegant. When they reached the end, the music drew to a close.

Breathing heavily from her exertions, Gwen curtseyed as the other ladies did to their partners, and Somerton bowed. He offered her his arm and escorted her from the dance floor.

“Where shall I escort you?” he asked.

“My mother is over there.” Gwen inclined her head toward where she’d left her mother earlier, hoping she would still be there. She’d no desire to wander the ballroom in search of her. The stares and whispered comments around her at the moment were difficult enough to bear.

“Just hold your head high,” Somerton said quietly. “And laugh. As though I’ve just said the wittiest thing.”

She did as he said and laughed. At least her laugh wasn’t embarrassing.

“Now look at me,” he said.

She followed his command and nearly tripped, for he was already looking at her, his eyes glowing with a particular heat she suddenly felt in the very core of herself. He put his hand over hers on his arm. “Steady there,” he whispered. “Smile.”

Realizing her lips were parted, she pressed them closed and smiled. Her pulse had begun to slow after the dance, but was now picking up speed again.

His hand remained over hers, a warm presence that gave her a comforting sense of security. She felt protected with the viscount walking beside her, and it actually wasn’t difficult for her to keep her head up.

They arrived at her mother, whose skin looked a bit pale. She smiled upon seeing them. “Good evening, Lord Somerton.”

“Good evening, Mrs. Price. Your daughter and I enjoyed a splendid dance.”

“I thank you for your attention to Gwen,” Gwen’s mother said.

Somerton took his hand from Gwen’s, and she reluctantly removed her grip on his sleeve. Her charming anchor was now gone, and she felt the chill of the ballroom in every part of her.

He bowed to Gwen. “Thank you, Miss Price.”

She curtseyed again even though he’d told her not to. “Thank you, my lord.”

Then he was gone, and Gwen braced herself for her mother’s concern. She would be disappointed, of course, but she would try very hard not to show it.

Summoning a somewhat encouraging smile, Gwen’s mother said, “I’m a bit fatigued. Shall we go?” It was so like her not to mention what had happened, at least not here. And if she did bring it up—which she surely would in this case—she would do so with a great deal of care.

“Yes, but have Papa and Evan not arrived yet?”

“Not that I’ve seen.” Her mother started toward the door to the entrance hall.

Gwen was relieved to hear that at least. Once they were finally settled in the coach, she let herself fully relax. Though, there was still a faint tremor of excitement left over from Somerton. The way he’d come to her rescue had been unexpected and absolutely wonderful—she would never forget it.

She also ought not to forget that he was a rogue, the sort of gentlemen she and her friends steered clear of. Still, apparently, a rogue could possess a great measure of kindness.

“Tomorrow, we can discuss whether it makes sense to remove to Bath,” Gwen’s mother said.

Taking a deep breath, Gwen gathered her courage to ask what she most wanted to know. “Are you disappointed, Mama?”

Gwen’s mother patted her hand and gave Gwen a warm smile. “Of course not. What happened tonight was an accident. However, I know you are clever enough to understand that it was still…unfortunate.”

That was a nice word. Damaging or disastrous might have been more accurate, however.

“While I expect it makes sense to not return to Almack’s, I am hopeful my Season can continue,” Gwen said cautiously.

Giving Gwen’s hand another pat, her mother then withdrew her hand to her own lap. “We’ll discuss it, dear. I know you’ll be amenable to whatever your father and I decide.”

Because she always was. What choice did Gwen have? If they didn’t wish her to continue her Season, she would not. Just as she hadn’t had a Season until now—that had been their decision, not hers. She’d just gone along with it, both because she respected their wisdom and because she would never demand something they didn’t support.

For these reasons, she would retreat to Bath. And that was exactly what she expected to happen.