Prologue
London 1817
Lucas Mayfield, the eighth Earl of Heightfield, was a lot of things, depending on whom you asked. But chief amongst all the adjectives his peers or others might attribute to him, none was more accurate than the one with which he labeled himself.
Bored.
It wasn’t a benign state either, rather a dangerous one—because boredom bred ideas, and the ones spinning about in his mind were of the scandalous, inventive, and daring variety. Ideas also necessitated risk, something with which he didn’t dally lightly. Rather, he craved control—thrived on it, in every aspect of his life. Control prevented pain, prevented others from manipulating you—because you held the marionette strings. If you were in control, life couldn’t toss you on your ear with blindsiding betrayal, death, or worse.
Because yes, indeed, there were always things worse than death.
Life, being one of them.
However, risk compromised that basic need for control, so it was with careful calculation that he even considered such a reckless and delightful diversion.
He would also need assistance, but that was easily afforded and solicited. Heathcliff and Ramsey were as bloody bored as he. Among the three of them, they had every connection and resource necessary to breathe life into this concoction of his imagination.
He tapped his finger against his brandy glass, the amber light of the fire in his study’s hearth casting an inviting glow. Darkness was so predictable, so protective. Much easier to manipulate than light.
He took a long sip of the fine French brandy, savoring the burn. It was heavenly. The perfection leading to temptation . . . leading to . . .
He sat up straighter, the leather chair squeaking slightly from the abrupt movement.Tempting.
He rolled the word around in his mind, a grin widening his lips even as he shook his head at the audacity of such an idea.
It was the perfect irony.
His idea had a name—a bloody insightful one.
Different than all the other gaming hells about London—his would thrive on anonymity. No names. No faces. Masks and the uttermost exclusivity that no other hell could boast. No strings attached, where your privacy is also your security—your pleasure.
Temptation.Short, sweet, and directly to the point.
Where you could fall from grace and never want to go back.
He lifted high his brandy glass, toasting himself, and took a long swig. It would solve so many of his own problems, the problems of his friends as well. And no doubt, if he struggled with such things, countless others did too.
Unable to resist such a brilliant plan’s lure, he stood and crossed his study in several wide strides, heading to the door. It was still somewhat early in the night, surely his friends would be still lingering at White’s. So with an eager expectation, he rode off into the night, the irritation of his boredom long gone.
In its place, something far more hazardous.
Determination.
Chapter One
Lady Liliah Durary urged her mare, Penny, into a rapid gallop as she flew through Hyde Park. A proper lady should have a care about the strolling couples about the park. A proper lady should not ride at such breakneck speed. A proper lady should obey her father in all things.
Liliah wasnota proper lady.
And hell would have to freeze over before she’d ever even try.
Tears burned the corners of her eyes, blurring her vision as she urged Penny faster, not caring that she was in a miserable sidesaddle—or that her speed was indeed dangerous for her precarious position. She wanted to outrun her problems—rather,problem. Because aside from the one damning issue at hand, life was otherwise quite lovely.
Being the elder daughter of a duke had its distinct advantages.
Of course, it had its distinct disadvantages as well. Like your father demanding you marry your best friend.
Who so happened to be in love with your other best friend.
