Prologue
April 1841
London, England
A garden party
Guess who?”
Tristan Gilbert, Earl Hawthorn, tensed at the sound of a decidedly-female voice at his back.
He froze further when a pair of hands, clad in supple kid leather, abruptly covered his eyes from behind and turned the world dark.
“Come now,” the melodious voice continued, fingertips pressing against his brow ridge, “surely ye ken who I be?”
The woman’s lilting cadence held Scotland and a hint of laughter.
Tristan hadn’t the faintest idea who she was.
Irritation constricted his chest, his jaw clenching.
Ten minutes. He had arranged to spend tenbloodyminutes alonein the Duke of Montacute’s garden—risking his father’s wrath and Babcock’s dismissal.
And now some managing miss had seized the opportunity to approach him in this unseemly manner.
“We are unacquainted, madam,” Tristan replied, words vibrating with leashed anger. “Please remove your hands from my person.”
She gave a startledeep!, her fingers instantly releasing him.
Glowering, Tristan pivoted around, a scathing tirade marshaled on his tongue.
But one glimpse of his assailant, and the syllables crumbled to dust.
He cataloged her in rapid bursts of imagery. Curls tousled and vibrant red. A trail of freckles across sharp cheekbones. A pert nose. Eyes the blue of summer cornflowers and dancing with mischief.
Lovely. She was lovely.
And then there was the lithe height of her, her forehead topping his shoulder. She would fit so neatly in his arms, he would scarcely need to bend his head to kiss her plump lips.
As for her lips . . .
An elegant gloved hand flew to her mouth, a scarlet blush rising up and over her cheeks before disappearing into the shadow of her cream bonnet.
Tristan tracked it with an almost unholy fascination, his pulse a punishing drumbeat in his ears.
She rendered him lightheaded, like a tumbler of brandy bolted too quickly.
“I do beg your pardon, my lord,” she breathed, that refined trace of Scotland in her vowels. “I mistook your lordship for an old family friend.”
My lord.
His mind snagged on the honorific.
“You know who I am?” He mentally winced at his brusque tone.
“Of course, Lord Hawthorn,” she replied breezily, an impish smile peeking out. “I think any marriage-minded miss under the age of thirty would recognize the Duke of Kendall’s heir.”
No slow-top, this woman.
