Prologue
Chastity Shackleford’s twin sister had accused her of being an incurable romantic. Indeed, she herself would have agreed entirely, three weeks, four days and seven hours ago, even if she was of the opinion that Charity’s words had been a trifle blunt.
But, three weeks, four days and seven hours was precisely the length of time it had taken to finally knock the last vestige of romance from her soul.
And now, shivering alone in the Earl of Cottesmore’s vast, cold bed, she couldn’t help but reflect - mostly in disbelief, it had to be said - at the unfortunate incident that had occasioned her current unhappy position.
In truth, it could be argued that her present dilemma should be laid firmly at the door of her twin, given that it was Charity who had suggested she accept the Duke of Blackmore’s offer of a Season in London.
Truly, having shared a womb, and spending practically every waking moment together since then, one would have thought Charity possessed enough common sense to realise that allowing her twin to brave the marriage mart on her own was quite simply a recipe for disaster.
Indeed, Chastity was persuaded she would not now be in this most vexing position had Charity herself not fallen unexpectedly in love and abandoned Blackmore for the wilds of Cornwall with her new husband.
Gritting her teeth to stop them chattering, Chastity turned her head and eyed the barely visible door apprehensively. She didn’t know which would be worse. The Earl of Cottesmore actually noticing her in his bed before climbing into it or discovering her presence once he was between the sheets. Definitely the latter. She sincerely hoped he was not in the habit of taking a pistol to bed.
Of course, what she should be doing was considering not how the Earl might effect her demise - or indeed what the devil he would do with her body once he’d done the effecting–but what words she could best use to persuade him that murdering her in his bed was actuallynotgoing to help with their current predicament. Or ratherhercurrent predicament. Although, to be fair, he wasn’t yetawareofhercurrent predicament.
He was a man of the world. Surely he would listen while she explained the reason for her unexpected presence in his bed. Naturally, she’d have to convince him that she wasn’t there to trap him into marriage. Well, shewas, but it was purely business. He needed to know that she’d entirely eschewed affairs of the heart, though, in all honesty, there was nothing romantic about freezing to death in a lord’s bed. Which, if he didn’t get a move on, was a very real possibility. But then, mayhap she’d be simply saving him the job. What on earth had possessed her that she couldeverhave believed this to be a good idea? To be hon…
Her thoughts screeched to a halt as she heard a sudden noise outside the window...
Chapter One
Two weeks earlier
The ball held at the Duke and Duchess of Blackmore’s London townhouse to herald in the year of 1815 was widely regarded as the most prestigious event of the year. Whilst the lingering euphoria of Napoleon’s exile to the Isle of Elba undoubtedly contributed to the festive atmosphere, the ball’s success was in no small part due to the popularity and standing within thetonof Nicholas Sinclair and his beautiful, though unconventional, wife, Grace.
The fact that the Duchess was the daughter of a local vicar appeared to have been forgotten or, if not forgotten, certainly disregarded. Indeed, it was widely agreed that her grace was looking simply radiant, as were those of her equally unconventional sisters who were present.
And if many of the gentlemen attending sported anxious frowns concerning the economic plight of Great Britain in the aftermath of the twenty-three-year war in Europe, well, such cares and considerations were easily drowned in a few glasses of the Duke’s most excellent port.
It had to be said that whilst the Duchess of Blackmore’s humble origins were generally overlooked, the presence of her father at events such as these, or rather his penchant for generating unfortunate incidents such as the one involving Queen Charlotte and the duck pond, was naturally of some concern to the rest of the family.
However, exile to the small, delightful drawing room along with Malcolm, the Duke’s long-standing and similarly outspoken valet, was in no way seen as a slight by the Reverend. In truth, Augustus Shackleford shouldn’t really have been in London at all and was entirely delighted to be foregoing the tedious and stultifying conversation enjoyed by polite society. Especially as the table was positively groaning under the weight of a delicious array of the cook’s tempting tarts and pastries, and the jug of port sitting tantalisingly on the sideboard was entirely up to his son-in-law’s usual standards.
Naturally, Percy Noon, the Reverend’s long-suffering curate was also present, as were the two younger Shacklefords, Prudence and Anthony. Both, much to their older sisters’ relief, had absolutely no desire to take part in the festivities. Indeed, Prudence had declared that she’d rather have her toenails removed with red hot pincers.
And then of course there was the Reverend’s foxhound Freddy who was perfectly content lying under the table ready to demolish any crumbs that happened to fall his way.
All three men were in a particularly jocular mood as the clock approached midnight, and Reverend Shackleford was persuaded that this was possibly the best New Year’s Eve he’d ever spent. For one thing, he hadn’t seen Agnes, his wife, since well before supper and was confident she would be happily discussing with all the other tabbies her latest obsession with yellow fever for hours yet.
His only daughter of marriageable age as yet unwed was Chastity, and he wasn’t about to do anything that might throw a rub in the way of Grace’s plans to bring the chit out.
So all in all, he was happy to make himself scarce until he was required to give his blessing to whoever was unfortunate enough to land himself with the totty-headed baggage.
∞∞∞
The totty-headed baggage in question was currently being escorted onto the dance floor by Viscount Trebworthy. Indeed, her father would have been ecstatic considering the young man was heir to a dukedom and rich as Croesus to boot. Unfortunately, he was also tall and skinny with breath like an open privy. In truth, Chastity was not entirely convinced she was actually going to survive the Cotillion. Determinedly, she fixed her gaze on his bony chest and endeavoured to breathe through her mouth. Hopefully, he would think her completely devoid of any personality and seek to be rid of her as soon as they vacated the dance floor.
Regrettably that proved not to be the case, and in desperation, pleading a sudden excessive thirst, Chastity sent the Viscount off in search of a glass of water, then promptly made herself scarce. Finally collapsing onto a chair hidden in a quiet corner.
Dear Lord, but she missed her twin. Charity was the only sister who’d been unable to join the family for Christmas. The distance and the state of the roads between Falmouth and London made travelling such a distance nigh on impossible during the cold, wet winter months. Why the devil did Charity have to go and choose a man from deucedCornwall? Notwithstanding the small detail that Jago Carlyon was perfect for her twin, surely she could have settled on someone equally perfect who didn’t live so bloodyfar away.
Sighing, Chastity furtively watched the room from her secluded corner. According to her dance card, her next two dances were unclaimed. So it was imperative she keep her head down for the rest of the Reel and more importantly the Waltz that was to follow. The thought of being in suchcloseproximity to the Viscount for a whole ten minutes was too desperate to even contemplate.
It had to be said, that so far, London was not living up to her romantic notions. In actual fact, it was failing dismally. She was reminded at every turn why exactly she and Charity had hated it so much growing up. Reading her stepmother’s periodicals and gossip sheets from the security of Blackmore was one thing. Actually mixing with polite society was another matter entirely.
She’d been in London for nearly three weeks and already she realised that most members of thetonwere vain, self-centred peacocks baring no resemblance to her girlish imaginings.
