Chapter 1
Titus Noble, the fifth Earl of Gilbourne, glared at the long queue of well-dressed revelers eager to enter the town of Marrywell’s richly decorated assembly rooms.
He hated that he was one of the masses.
“Of all the ridiculous places to arrange a simple meeting…” he said under his breath as the crowd snaked closer to the open ballroom doors to the May Day fair welcome ball. The evening was dark and dreary, matching his disposition.
There was nothing convenient about this farce. His godmother, Lady Stapleton, had seen to that. She knew of Titus’s disinclination to attend any event with young marriageable hopefuls—or, to be honest, any event that involved other people. Yet where did she arrange this damnable rendezvous?
The opening night gala of the annual Marrywell matchmaking festival, that’s where.
“Five minutes,” he muttered into the starched folds of his cravat. “I’ll give it five minutes, and then I’m leaving.”
Except he and his godmother both knew he’d stay until he found her and picked up the infernal package, as requested.
Duty. His compulsive need to do the right thing drove his every action. He had never cursed it more.
After the death of his parents when Titus was twelve years old, he’d been remanded into his godparents’ care. Fourteen years later, Titus’s godfather was long gone, but Lady Stapleton was almost as spry—and certainly as scheming—as ever.
Apparently, she had a new ward to foster. One as willful and fractious as a mule. The recalcitrant chit had proved too much for the widow to manage. In hope that a firm hand would nudge her newly orphaned grand-niece onto a respectable path, Lady Stapleton was transferring control over to her godson.
Titus was the epitome of control. His unbreakable iron will was the one thing keeping him from roaring like a lion and charging back into his carriage as fleet as a cheetah.
Obviously he could keep a small slip of a girl in check. The problem was that he had no desire to do so. Titus lived alone for a reason.
A gaggle of debutantes bounded up to him like baby fawns approaching a bubbling stream. After extensive giggling amongst themselves, the bravest of the bunch stepped forward. She fluttered her eyelashes at Titus in faux flirtation, but her gaze slithered over his scars and failed to meet his eyes.
“My heavens, this queue is ever so long,” she simpered, her voice falsetto. “Surely a lord such as yourself cannot object if we were to stand with you?”
Titus smote all six of them with his monstrous glare.
They blanched in unison and scurried off toward the end of the line, grasping at each other for strength and shooting fearful gazes over their pastel shoulders as they fled.
See? He would be a phenomenal guardian.
Even if every moment of it was against his will. Blast his godmother!
Everyone knew that the Earl of Gilbourne was an emotionless, rigid automaton who lived for predictability and order. He was a dangerous beast who lived alone—save for his servants, who took care to stay out of his sight. Once this bothersome interlude ended, Titus intended to continue his self-isolation until the day he died.
Between his estates and the House of Lords, he had a surplus of responsibilities to keep him busy. There was no room in his exacting schedule for a frivolous soirée in some country village, just as there was no room in his quiet, peaceful, meticulously structured life for an unexpected ward.
At last, it was Titus’s turn to enter the ballroom.
“Your calling card, my lord?” asked the nauseatingly cheerful footman stationed at the door. “Oh! You must be—”
“You will not announce my name to this crowd,” Titus growled.
The footman wilted, then scrounged up a panicked smile. “Er… Do go in, my lord. Please, have a lovely night.”
Titus glowered back and stormed inside.
He never smiled, and he never laughed, and he was not at all bothered by his lack of unnecessary facial contortions. Life was neither funny nor fun. Why pretend to be enjoying it?
There was certainly nothing to look forward to in a circus like this.
He cast his dark gaze about the crowded ballroom, scanning for his godmother. With her snow white hair adorned with a trio of omnipresent ostrich feathers, she should be simple to spot, even in a beehive like this one.
There was no sign of Lady Stapleton anywhere.
