Chapter One
Hampshire, England
July 1808
John Breminster surveyedthe ballroom and smirked at his good fortune. No one stopped before him and bowed, no society mamas whispered in their daughters’ ears as he passed, and no bright, false smiles flashed his way. The fine country people of Hampshire paid him no more mind than any other nominal gentleman. He was no longer the Marquess of Forster, heir to one of the richest dukedoms in England. No, tonight he was another man entirely. He had transformed into someone commonplace and it felt amazing. Better than wine, better than whiskey, better than winning at cards or walloping his friends in a curricle race.
Only one thing, in his experience, eclipsed the pleasure of his current subterfuge: a beautiful woman, bare and eager before him.
And tonight he would add to that lovely sight a singular enhancement. The woman he bedded this evening would be utterly ignorant of his true identity. She would fall prey only tohischarms, not those of pedigree or coin.
He had, of course, not pulled off his transformation alone. His three best friends had spread his new name among the guests. He was now Mr. Overton, supposed penniless vicar and distant cousin of the Viscount Tremberley, one of said best friends and the host of this very ball.
Since they had left Oxford two months ago, thetonhad dubbed John and his three best friends the Rank Rakes. They had earned their charming new moniker because they were all titled—and had quickly steeped themselves in the type of vice and dissipation that high society tacitly accepted but publicly deplored. John tended to regard the commentary about their conduct as absurd overreaction. Really, to call themrakeswas a bit much.
Although, he thought, with a grin he failed to stifle, hewascurrently pretending to be someone else to give novelty to the act of seduction.
He was now affecting—rather well, he thought—the manner of a poor relation on his first trip to his great cousin’s countryseat. He stood to the side of the room, the arms of his plain wool coat crossed, as if he were struggling to compose himself amidst the unfamiliar splendor.
Scanning the crush for a suitable woman, John noticed one of his best friends, the Earl of Montaigne, flirting with a particularly buxom maid. Montaigne seemed to have waylaid the girl on her way to the retiring room, where she would see to the needs of the ladies in attendance. A maid couldn’t very well ignore the entreaties of an earl but John could see that her lingering presence in the ballroom was causing eyebrows to raise amongst the other guests. Thetonwould never tolerate such behavior. The people here this evening, however, were only good Hampshire gentry. They would neither complain to Tremberley about an errant servant girl nor recognize John as the Marquess of Forster.
John suppressed an amused scowl at Montaigne’s characteristic behavior. His friend was addicted to women far below his station—servants were his particular vice—and he had clearly found his quarry for this trip to Tremberley Manor.
“God, Montaigne’s at it again,” said a voice from just behind him. He turned to see the last of their quartet, the Marquess of Leith, emerge from the darkness of a nearby balcony.
“He really must stop with the servants,” Leith continued, his eyes still trained on Montaigne. “It’s becoming grotesque.”
“Leith,” John objected, “you know servants are Montaigne’sraison d’être. He will never give them up. We’ll be in our seventies—you, me, and Trem long put through the society ringer, old bastards who only care for whist and whiskey—and Montaigne will be below stairs, flirting with the housekeeper, the scullery maid, and the cook at the same time.”
Leith scoffed. John knew better than to think he was really disgusted. They watched as Montaigne dismissed the girl. The genteel faces on the other side of the room relaxed. They might be minor gentry and unlanded clergy but these people knew the reputation of the Rank Rakes and they didn’t want to regret having brought their daughters to this entertainment. Nevertheless, John would bet his life that the girl had just agreed to meet Montaigne in his bed later that evening.
“I’d like to see him try and seduce someone unmoved by the sight of a guinea.”
“You’ll have to tell him yourself. Mr. Overton would never speak to an earl in such an impertinent manner.”
“I forgot your little game.” Leith eyed the drab, cheap clothing of his disguise. “In that case, I won’t waste any more time conversing with a man so unequal to myself.”
John laughed as Leith slid away. He was most likely headed to the corner of the ballroom to perform social penance with the matrons and long-shelved spinsters. Regardless of whatever self-inflicted punishment Leith took on now, John knew he would end the night with the courtesan he had invited down from London and whose good looks and bright gown announced her profession to anyone who cared to take notice. Montaigne might love a servant but not more than Leith loved a high-class harlot.
John returned to evaluating the crush, casting about for a woman who might be to his tastes.
Instead he caught sight of Tremberley signaling to him from the other side of the ballroom. He stood next to his current obsession, a woman he had rhapsodized about for nearly a week: Miss Marisa Plinty, a voluptuous raven-haired young widow, apparently known throughout the parish as wild, unconventional and uninterested in marrying again. She and Tremberley had been exchanging lewd notes for weeks.
The viscount tipped his head once more in the direction of Miss Plinty and a young woman standing beside her. The other chit was largely obscured by the crowd, but John doubted that she would be worth his while. However, if he ignored Tremberley any longer, he would endanger his game. A man like Mr. Overton would never fail to heed his noble relative, which Tremberley, of course, knew very well.
John loped in his best friend’s direction, losing sight of him for a moment due to the tightly packed bodies. Finally, he came upon the trio right near the edge of the dance.
He could see the young woman who was not Miss Plinty clearly now. She was clad in light pink but the color was too unremarkable for a woman so striking. Her dress courted obscurity while she refused to cooperate. Her blond hair appeared from certain angles nearly silver. She was tall—almost at his shoulder—and her frock had a fashionable bodice that made her round, full breasts no secret. John noticed the way a flush stole up her exposed décolletage to her cheeks.
Pretty, unusually pretty even, but not what he was looking for tonight. Or any night, really. Respectable, marriageable girls never were. Despite her allure, there was no mistaking that this girl, whoever she might be, was a young lady of the gentry looking for her match.
“Mr. Overton,” Tremberley said, forcing John to look away from the young lady in the pink dress. “Please let me introduce you to Miss Plinty and to her cousin, Miss Musgrave, visiting from Derbyshire.”
Both women dropped into curtseys—not as low as those he usually received as a future duke—and John gave a more dramatic bow than that he would normally tender towards two gentry chits from neither title nor family. He reminded himself to adjust his greeting to match his new persona.
“The pleasure is all mine, ladies. I hope you excuse the intrusion. While there is much beauty arrayed here tonight, I saw you both and resolved that I must become acquainted.”
Miss Plinty tittered. Miss Musgrave simply raised her eyebrows. Their eyes met and he felt a shock of attraction reverberate from his molars down to his heels. It was desire, unmistakable and almost painful. And very unwelcome.
