Prologue
October 1812
“Rot—Utter rot!”
The dark scowl felt heavy on Edward’s face as he strode from Lord Bowcott’s country home. It pulled on the corners of his mouth and narrowed his eyes to slits, beneath which he glowered at his carriage as it ambled up the drive. His entire purpose in coming to this man’s home was to learn how Miss Cartwright had slipped through his fingers. But instead of even seeing the woman, he’d been kept from any of the members of the house party—thebetrothalparty, which was not his own—and been chased from the home by James Fenwick and his ridiculous friends.
He kept his head high despite the knot that now twisted his insides, its grip tightening with each step he took.
This should not wound him so. It should not matter. One inconsequential woman was not so different from the next... and yet there was an acute pain spreading through him. He broke his stride, for only a moment. A self-proclaimed hardened man should not be so affected. Particularly when the set down came from a woman he neither knew nor cared for.
With a great deal of force, he propelled a rock from his path, scuffing the tip of his polished Hessian boots. His scowl deepened. How in the blazes did such a man manage to snare London’s incomparable right out from under Edward’s nose? He had been certain—certain—the woman’s father would choose his own suit, with an ample wedding settlement and not insignificant connections, over the new Lord Bowcott’s.
He was Edward Drayton, the Earl of Norwich, devil take it! It was unaccountable. Ridiculous. Embarrassing.
With fluid movements, he climbed into his carriage, steam practically pouring from his ears. He was all too eager to leave the Earl of Bowcott’s home—and this utter disgrace—behind as quickly as possible. Surely once the structure and its grounds were out of view, he would be able to go back to his unemotional ways. Would be able to brush off the knowledge that he’d traveled all this way for nothing. After years of being quite literally hunted by various women of theton, he could never have anticipated this sort of set down. It was humiliating, and it put Edward back a great deal in his plans to find the ideal wife.
Barton, his valet, cleared his throat from his seat across the carriage.
Edward cut his eyes to the man, scowling further.
“Not a word, Barton. I do not wish to speak of this. Ever.”
Barton closed his mouth and nodded, ever the faultless servant.
Edward pounded twice on the roof, and the carriage lurched forward. Outside, their equipage made plenty of noise, but inside, silence beat like a drum.
Edward bounced the heel of his boot, stewing in his anger. Every minute or so Barton shot him a concerned look. It only angered Edward more.
After several tense moments in which Edward thoroughly bruised his own hand from clenching it so tightly, he gave in to Barton’s continued glances. “Whatcould Lord Bowcott possibly have that would commendhimmore thanme?” Edward ground out the words, piercing Barton with a glare.
Barton said nothing.
Edward rubbed his jaw. His servant was only a year or two Edward’s senior, if a head shorter, but he appeared far older when he adopted that stony, proper facade. It was one of Edward’s personal vexations when Barton acted so... like a servant. It was blasted frustrating, being that the valet was the closest thing to a friend Edward could boast of. But, at times, Edward became all too aware of their difference in social standing. Such as now, when the man refused to speak after his master commanded him not to. But Barton clearly wished to speak—Edward could tell from the slight pulling in of his cheeks and the miniscule lift of his brow.
“He is entirely new to his title and not in any way worthy of a prize such as Miss Cartwright. How did he manage it? It’s a bag of moonshine—the lot of it.” Edward’s voice rose as he spoke, and he wished for a drink. Perhaps they would stop at an inn early.
Barton watched him, but still, he said nothing, though his expression continued to reveal he had plenty in his thoughts. Edward sighed, though the sound was far more frustrated than relenting.
“Go on, Barton. Speak your blasted mind.”
The man needed no more than that. He folded his arms and pierced Edward with a look. A look heavy with challenge. “Perhaps, my lord, Miss Cartwright’s father took offense with your reputation.”
Edward swatted away the valet’s words, shaking his head; Miss Cartwright’s father only cared for the financial benefit he would receive from marrying his daughter off. That was the man’s whole point in offering her up for marriage—to settle his many debts. Edward’s reputation as a rake would not have been a factor in the slightest, which made it even more ridiculous that Lord Bowcott was chosen over himself.
“Then perhaps, my lord, Lord Bowcott was simply the better man for the deal.” Barton sat back, looking out the window after raising his eyebrows at Edward. The man likely only meant that Bowcott had offered more in terms of wedding settlement, but his words struck Edward far deeper than that. Deep enough that they even touched at that part of Edward’s emotions he had not examined since his mother’s death. Suddenly defeated, he sat back against the cushioned seat and massaged the bridge of his nose.
Lord Bowcott most certainlywasthe better man, loathe as Edward was to admit it. Not that it would take much to be awarded such a title against himself. Edward was known for the many scandals surrounding his name or, perhaps even more so, for his general disregard of what thetonthought of him at all. It had never bothered him much until recently, but now it was frustrating him a great deal. Miss Cartwright was only one example in his life where he had fallen short... and he was not supposed to accept failure. Earls did not fall short of expectation.
He groaned, letting his head fall backward and his eyes close. He needed a distraction from this latest deficiency.
Chapter One
March 1813
“Would you prefer the redor yellow tonight, my lord?”
“Neither, Barton. The black will do.”
