Chapter One
Lady Aurora Sinclairstared out at the wide sweep of lawn before her, populated by some of London’s most attractive gentlemen all hovering about the early blooming primroses. She took a sip of her tepid lemonade, searching for a place to discreetly dispose of it. Like most of her family, Aurora had a taste for Irish whiskey and didn’t care for lemonade, though she did like gardens.
She’d had a garden. No roses, of course. Mostly cabbage.
Glancing about, Aurora was unsurprised to see she was once more alone and unchaperoned. Not unusual. Her chaperone, Miss Charlotte Maplehurst, wasn’t terribly good at her job. Aurora covered her mouth with one gloved hand, trying to stifle a bored yawn.
Is this it, then?
When first arriving in London shortly after her brother, Jordan, became Earl of Emerson, Aurora had been thrilled. Overcome. Nearly giddy with excitement after spending a decade in banishment at the broken-down estate that was Dunnings. Emerson House boasted a full larder, something Aurora hadn’t seen in years. Upon her arrival, Aurora was measured for and received an entire new wardrobe. Finally, she was in the possession of dresses that hadn’t been patched so often they looked like a quilt. Gloves. Bonnets. Slippers. Fans. Oh, andbooks. Dozens and dozens. Aurora was allowed to buyas many tomes as she liked from Tate’s, the bookseller she favored.
Tamsin, overprotective older sister, had determined Auroramusthave a proper debut. Live the life as an earl’s daughter, the one denied her for so long. Dancing, deportment, lessons in French—which Aurora still did not speak passably well—history, riding, lessons on the piano.
Oh, she was terrible at the piano. A tragedy, really, since young ladies were often measured by such a talent.
Each lesson received was guaranteed to mold Aurora into the very epitome of English womanhood. It was the culmination of her every girlish dream, especially since cost was no longer an issue. The Sinclair family was no longer impoverished.
Dunnings, that terrible barren place where she and her siblings had been banished by their older half-brother, Bentley—now thankfully deceased—was a place onesurvived. The crumbling estate was more punishment than home. Bentley had wanted the reminder of Father’s second family far from London and reduced to living on his nonexistent charity. When Mama fell ill, Bentley hadn’t even sent them enough coin to find her a proper physician. She’d died at Dunnings: Aurora’s lovely, scandalous mother, never once saying a bad word toward Bentley.
A true villain to the story of the Sinclairs, Bentley had been abetted in his actions by his horrid maternal aunt, Lady Longwood. What a terrible human being her half-brother had been.
Aurora didn’t miss him in the least.
She hoped Bentley spun about in his grave knowing that while he’d left the earldom mired in bankruptcy due to his poor management and lavish spending, his hated half-siblings were now obscenely wealthy.Coalhad been found at Dunnings. Not just enough to light a warm fire if the night grew chilled,mind you, butbucketsof coal. Dunnings was now considered one of the largest coal deposits in all of England. Ironic, given the Sinclairs had struggled for years to make the ground at Dunnings produce something other than cabbage.
None of them had anticipated coal.
Aurora discreetly tipped over her glass of lemonade into the potted fern beside her and wandered closer to a servant holding a tray of what appeared to be champagne. She really shouldn’t. Champagne wasn’t her spirit of choice. Neither was the ratafia some of the ladies were indulging in. But, she reasoned, giving a roll of her shoulders, one must make do.
The champagne was delightful. Refreshing. Much better than the lemonade, though she would have preferred whiskey. She finished the bubbly, pale pink liquid in moments. Another glass was in order.
She snatched one without being noticed.
Staring out at the colorful display of gowns and cheerful attire surrounding her, Aurora considered how she’d once longed to be part of the social whirl. Dreamt of being a lady and dancing in a handsome gentleman’s arms. Her debut was made in a stunning confection of pale rose decorated with brilliants. A tiny tiara had been woven into her dark curls and diamonds dangled from her ears, a gift from Tamsin. Aurora’s first dance had even been with a duke. Her brother-in-law, Ware.
She swished the champagne around in her mouth, stopping only to take a small tart from yet another servant’s tray. In truth, there was little else to do.
London had shuddered at the news that the brazen, wanton, rides-astride, Lady Tamsin Sinclair had wed the Duke of Ware. Seduction, the gossips claimed, was to blame for poor Ware’s downfall. Tamsin the Temptress.
In truth, the seduction had been nonexistent, at first, and most of the fuss caused by a moth. Tamsin and Ware were madly in love, as ill-matched as they might seem at first glance.
Good lord.Aurora looked down to find her glass already empty again. She’d have only one glass more, though her tolerance for spirits was much higher than the typical young lady. Given she was a Sinclair.
A typical young lady.
Aurora snorted. No one had warned her how dreadfully dull her second Season would be after the initial excitement of her first. Boring. Yawn inducing. Nothing of import to discuss but gowns, horses, and the weather.
She placed her empty glass on a nearby table, twirled about and quickly slipped herself more champagne from the refreshment table without a soul noticing. Raising the fan dangling from her wrist, Aurora waved in annoyance at the thin sheen of sweat coating her chest and cheeks. The small burst of air provided was welcome but not nearly enough. The tent was tightly packed, overly warm, and had the press of too many bodies.
One staunch matron, overly plump, and clad in lavender with a spray of violets stuck in her coiffure, sent a disapproving look, her gaze lowering to the half-empty glass of champagne clutched in Aurora’s hand. Her companions did the same, assessing Aurora, all reeking of judgmental propriety.
Aurora deliberately brought the glass to her lips and swallowed the remainder of the champagne.
She tilted her chin mulishly, ignoring the gasp of shock at her behavior, having become accustomed to such censure. Lifting her skirts, Aurora sauntered in the opposite direction, careful not to drop the empty glass. Well, what did it matter? Most of London was waiting patiently for Aurora to prove to be aDeadly Sindespite her perfect behavior, affected modesty, and connection to a duke.
Aurora tried to take a deep breath and found she couldn’t. Discarded her empty glass for more champagne, all while tugging at the bodice of her gown which was far too tight but eminently fashionable.
A young lady’s clothing was no more than a snare made of silk, meant to trap her beneath mounds of petticoats, lace, and cotton. Aurora hadn’t thought, when dreaming of the marvelous future awaiting her, that so many bloody clothes would be required. Tamsin, who was far more generously curved, often lamented that corsets had been invented for the sole purpose of torturing a woman into silence. One could hardly breathe, let alone speak or enjoy a good meal, if laced too tightly. Corsets, Tamsin claimed, were nothing more than a conspiracy visited upon all womanhood.
