Prologue
November 1821
London, England
Lady Rosalie de Lacy knocked twice on the heavy cherrywood door to her father’s study before pushing it open. “You summoned me, Papa?”
Arthur de Lacy, the Duke of Swanscombe, rose to his feet, setting aside the papers he had been perusing and peeling off his spectacles. “Rosalie. Thank you for coming.” He gestured with one brawny hand to the red leather wingchair positioned before his desk. “Please, have a seat.”
Rosalie bit back a smile as her father settled into the oversized chair he’d had custom made to accommodate his burly six-foot, seven-inch frame. There was a common jest amongst theton—He’s Duke of Swanscombe? Duke of Bearscombe would be more apt.
In terms of stature, both Rosalie and her younger brother, Robin, had taken after their mother, who was of average height. Robin at least had inherited Papa’s thick brown hair, but Rosalieresembled her mother the duchess in every particular, with pale skin dusted with freckles, strawberry blonde hair, and pale blue eyes.
She may look like her mother, but in all the ways that counted, she was her father’s girl.
Her father gestured to the teapot. “Would you pour?”
“Of course.” Rosalie noted as she prepared her father’s cup, then her own, that the pot contained her favorite blend of tea, which had a touch of orange blossom and vanilla, rather than the plain black tea he preferred. She smiled as she sipped from her cup. It was like her father to prioritize his daughter’s preference over his own.
The duke consumed half the contents of his cup in one sip. “I had a visitor this afternoon. Lysander Deverell, Viscount Valentine.”
“Oh?” Rosalie asked, setting her own cup aside.
Her father was studying her rather intently. “Do you truly not know the reason for his visit?”
She gave a startled laugh. “I haven’t the faintest notion.”
A single crease appeared between her father’s bushy brows. “That is… unexpected. You see, the reason Lord Valentine came to call was to ask for your hand in marriage.”
Rosalie, who had been reaching for her cup as her father made this pronouncement, managed to slosh tea not just in the saucer, but onto her father’s leather blotter. “I beg your pardon?”
The duke reached across the desk to dab at the spill with his handkerchief, unbothered, at least, about the mess. His brown eyes were sharp as he asked, “You truly had no notion? He has not been courting you?”
“Courtingme? Gracious, no.” She scarcely knew the man! She had not spoken to Lord Valentine in… at least three years. Possibly four. And she would estimate that they had exchangedno more than two dozen words during the entire course of their acquaintance.
The duke nodded firmly. “Very well. I will write to the viscount refusing his?—”
“Wait.” Rosalie found that her hand had shot out of its own accord, wrapping itself around her father’s thick wrist.
On the one hand, it was startling that Lysander Deverell had asked for her hand.
And yet… he was titled. Wealthy. And his reputation was spotless. He was precisely the sort of man her mother expected her to marry.
He was even young and… Rosalie couldn’t quite bring herself to use the word handsome, even though she knew there were dozens of giggling debutantes who thought him precisely that. Unfortunately for Rosalie, Lysander’s particular brand of blond-haired, blue-eyed, cherubim-sprung-to-life looks held little appeal. She had always preferred?—
Rosalie stopped herself from finishing that thought. The person whose name hadalmostflitted across her mind had shown her how few thoughts he spared for her. She was determined to give him precisely the same treatment.
But, returning to Lysander, at least he had all of his teeth—something that could not be said of all of Rosalie’s suitors.
And so, to her own surprise, the words that emerged from Rosalie’s lips were, “I wish to accept.”
Her father’s eyebrows shot up. “Have you been nursing a secrettendrefor this Lysander fellow?”
Rosalie’s cheeks heated. She knew it would be easiest to tell a white lie. Her father would accept her decision without another word if he believed Lysander was the object of her affections.
But she couldn’t lie to her Papa.
“I have not,” she admitted.
