Chapter One
Oxfordshire, 1813
Miss Christabella Winterwas in a terrible mood.
A terrible, dreadful, horrid mood.
She cast a glance over her shoulder to make certain none of the guests at the country house party being hosted by her brother and sister-in-law wandered in the hall. Assured of her solitude, she crossed the threshold of the small, cozy salon where she had taken to hiding herself at Abingdon House. With its eastern-facing windows, generous hearth, and overstuffed chairs, it was the perfect place to indulge in an hour or two of uninterrupted reading.
She sighed as she closed the door at her back. Judging from the way her day had gone thus far, she may need a good three hours of pleasant diversion to distract herself from the grimness of her disposition. First, she deplored cold. Second, she did not like snow. Third, she was tired of playing charades, especially when none of the players could correctly guess what she was attempting to enact. Fourth, she had set her heart upon finding a wicked rake of her own at this cursed house party.
Instead, all the rakes had eyes for her sisters.
Which left Christabella with no one, the only hope of entertainment to be had in the small, leather-bound volume she had secreted in the hidden pocket she had sewn into her gown for just such a purpose. Because the book she was about to read was not just any book. No, indeed. It was a volume in the forbidden, wicked, utterly bawdy series of books known asThe Tale of Love.
On another sigh, she threw herself into one of the chairs by the hearth, plucking the book from her pocket. At least she was assured of some rakish diversion within its pages, even if this house party had proven deadly boring thus far. She flipped to the page where she had last quit reading, toed off her shoes, tucked her feet underneath her bottom, and settled in.
That was when she heard it.
A noise.
The clearing of a masculine throat, to be precise.
She stilled, her eyes flying about the chamber.
And that was when she sawhim.
The tall, golden-haired, infallibly handsome Duke of Coventry. The only man present at the house party who had yet to speak a word to her, not even during their introduction. He stood at the opposite end of the chamber, staring at her, his mien forbidding.
He looked, unless she was mistaken, as if he were vexed with her.
But how silly, for she was the one who ought to be nettled for the manner in which he was trespassing upon the salon she had claimed for herself. Why, it was all but her territory. He had no right to be here. None at all.
“Your Grace,” she said, forgetting she ought to stand, slip her shoes back on, and curtsy. “What are you doing in my salon?”
His brows rose, as if he questioned her daring. But he said nothing.
What a queer man he was. Never mind that. He could stand there all stoic and silent as he liked. She could talk enough for the both of them.
“Oh, of course,” she said, frowning at him. “It is notmysalon. But I have been reading here for the past few days, and I rather fancy it mine now. You will have to go somewhere else. Just look at how comfortable I have made myself in this chair. Do you dare disturb me?”
His nostrils flared. But still, he did not move. And still, he did not speak.
She wondered if it was because she had yet to observe formality.
“Must I curtsy?” she asked him. “It feels frightfully foolish to do so when we are the only two in the chamber. Just imagine us curtsying and bowing with no one to watch, when we are already committing an egregious faux pas by being here alone together.”
His jaw seemed to harden, and the hands at his sides flexed. They were the only signs he was man and not a statue fashioned of coldest stone.
“Very well.” On an irritated sigh, she flounced her gown and rose to her feet. “I shall curtsy. But do not expect me to put my slippers back on. They are too tight. I think they belong to my sister Grace. Her feet are a bit daintier than mine.”
She dipped into a mocking curtsy, holding his gaze all the while. “There. Are you satisfied now, Your Grace?”
Finally, at long last, his lips moved.
He spoke.
One word, curt and definitive. “No.”
