LITMIR.BIZ

      To my husband, Larry.

       My true life hero.

      Contents

      Chapter One

      Chapter Two

      Chapter Three

      Chapter Four

      Chapter Five

      Chapter Six

      Chapter Seven

      Chapter Eight

      Chapter Nine

      Chapter Ten

      Chapter Eleven

      Chapter Twelve

      Chapter Thirteen

      Chapter Fourteen

      Chapter Fifteen

      Chapter Sixteen

      Chapter Seventeen

      Chapter Eighteen

      Chapter Nineteen

      Chapter Twenty

      Chapter Twenty-One

      Chapter Twenty-Two

      Chapter Twenty-Three

      Chapter Twenty-Four

      Chapter Twenty-Five

      Chapter Twenty-Six

      Chapter Twenty-Seven

      Chapter Twenty-Eight

      Chapter Twenty-Nine

      Chapter Thirty

      Chapter Thirty-One

      Chapter Thirty-Two

      Epilogue

      Author’s Note

      One

      London, England

       June 1806

      “’Tis a shame, is what it is.” Cornelia Thorne, Lady Brookfield, stood near the center of the ballroom. “Just look at him out there dancing…so completely bored. Him a duke and her such a mousy little thing, completely terrified of the man, I’ll wager.”

      The Duchess of Sheffield, Miriam Saunders, raised her quizzing glass to peer at her son, Rafael, Duke of Sheffield. Miriam and her sister, Cornelia, were attending a charity ball along with Rafael and his betrothed, Lady Mary Rose Montague. The evening, a benefit for the London Widows and Orphans Society, was being held in the magnificent ballroom of the Chesterfield Hotel.

      “The girl is actually quite lovely,” the duchess defended, “so blond and petite, just a bit shy, is all.” Unlike her son, the duke, who was tall and dark, with eyes even bluer than her own. And there was Rafe, himself, a strong, incredibly handsome man whose powerful presence seemed to overshadow the young woman he had chosen to be his future bride.

      “I’ll grant, she is pretty,” Cornelia said, “in a rather white-washed sort of way. Still, it seems a shame.”

      “Rafael is finally doing his duty. It is past time he took a wife. Perhaps they don’t suit as well as I would have liked, but the girl is young and strong, and she will bear him healthy sons.” And yet, as her sister had said, Miriam couldn’t miss the bland, bored expression on her son’s very handsome face.

      “Rafael was always so dashing,” Cornelia said a bit wistfully. “Do you not remember the way he was before? So full of fire, so passionate about life in those days. Now…well, he is always so restrained. I do miss the vibrant young man he used to be.”

      “People change, Cornelia. Rafe learned the hard way where those sorts of emotions can lead.”

      Cornelia grunted. “You’re talking about The Scandal.” Thin and gray-haired, she was older than the duchess by nearly six years. “How could anyone forget Danielle…? Now, there was a woman Rafael’s equal. ’Tis a shame she turned out to be such a disappointment.”

      The duchess cast her sister a glance, not wanting a reminder of the terrible scandal they had suffered because of Rafe’s former betrothed, Danielle Duval.

      The dance ended and the couples began dispersing from the dance floor. “Hush,” Miriam warned. “Rafe and Mary Rose are coming this way.” The girl was nearly a foot shorter than the duke, blond, blue-eyed and fair, the perfect picture of English femininity. She was also the daughter of an earl, with a very sizable dowry. Miriam prayed her son would find at least some measure of happiness with the girl.

      Rafe made a polite, formal bow. “Good evening, Mother. Aunt Cornelia.”

      Miriam smiled. “You’re both looking quite splendid tonight.” And they did. Rafe in dove-gray breeches and a navy-blue tailcoat that set off the blue of his eyes, and Mary Rose in a gown of white silk trimmed with delicate pink roses.

      “Thank you, Your Grace,” said the girl, with a very proper curtsy.

      Miriam frowned. Was her hand trembling where it rested on the sleeve of Rafe’s coat? Dear God, the child would soon be a duchess. Miriam fervently prayed she would manage to infuse a bit of backbone into her spine as the months went along.

      “Would you care to dance, Mother?” Rafe asked politely.

      “Later, perhaps.”

      “Aunt Cornelia?”

      But Cornelia was staring at the doorway, her mind a thousand miles away. Miriam followed her gaze, as did Rafael and his betrothed.

      “Speak of the devil…” Cornelia whispered beneath her breath.

      Miriam’s eyes widened and her heartbeat quickened, turned wildly erratic. She recognized the short, plump little woman entering the ballroom, Flora Chamberlain, Dowager Countess Wycombe. And she also knew the tall, slender, red-haired woman who was the countess’s niece.

      Miriam’s mouth thinned into a hostile line. A few feet away, her son’s expression shifted from incredulity to anger, deepening the slight cleft in his chin.

      Cornelia continued to stare. “Of all the nerve!”

      A muscle tightened along Rafe’s jaw, but he didn’t say a word.

      “Who is that?” asked Mary Rose.

      Rafe ignored her. His gaze remained locked on the elegant creature entering the ballroom behind her aunt. Danielle Duval had been living in the country for the past five years. After The Scandal, she had been banished, shamed into leaving the city. Since

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