Prologue
Somewhere in the English Channel
December 1810
Tristan Shepherd hadn’t planned on dying in the center of the Channel. He certainly hadn’t intended on expiring before accomplishing important things like beating his brother Charles in a curricle race or kissing his way through his years at Cambridge. But the storm tossing his ship about on the way home from his Grand Tour had other ideas.
Every time the ship lurched, he was glad the stool he perched on was bolted to the floor. Thunder crashed mutely in the distance as they rocked, his stomach as turbulent as the water they were tossing in. Their packet ship was too small for the monstrous waves throwing them about.
Tristan swallowed. Hereallywasn’t ready to die, but a watery grave was growing more likely by the moment.
Thomas’s proposed wager had felt like a good, harmless distraction. When it was first put forward, Tristan privately thought his friends were being a tad melodramatic. But as the storm worsened, he agreed with them—they would be lucky to reach land alive.
Which was why they were each taking turns pledging themselves to this wager: if they made it off this ship, the last of them to marry would pay one hundred pounds to each of the six other friends. It’d been a quarter-hour since Thomas had first shared his scheme, and every passing minute made it seem like an even better idea.
Perhaps that was due to the prospect of walking on solid land again.
Tristan wasn’t in any particular hurry to be leg-shackled, but facing certain death did make a man consider the legacy he’d leave behind—or lack of one, more accurately.
WhatwasTristan’s legacy? A few good jests, of course. A broken heart or two. Perhaps a decent opinion for some that he was an excellent horseman with a remarkably steady hand.
So not much, all told.
Lips flattened in dry acceptance, Tristan glanced at his twin. Charles was seated on the stool beside him with a far-off look in his brown eyes. Had they truly been laughing only moments ago? A way to cover their steady, thrumming fear, undoubtedly.
Rowan finished reciting his vow to fulfill the wager, swearing to do right by the woman he’d been promised to for years. It was now Charles’s turn, yet he remained silent. Tristan kicked his twin’s boot, nodding.
Charles shot him a grateful smile. His dark hair had a lock out of place, but there was no sense in fixing somethingthat would shortly be thrown askew again. He inhaled, then proclaimed, “I, Charles Shepherd, swear to fulfill the wager!”
Wonderful. Now it was Tristan’s turn. He repeated the words, tossing his promise into the aether. Thunder growled, tearing through the walls of the ship and vibrating his bones. His throat grew dry as he shared a look with Charles.
Ridiculous wager. None of them could afford to easily part with six hundred pounds. It wouldn’t bankrupt Tristan, but he wasn’t exactly flush in the pocket either.
Another wave crashed into the side of the ship, forcing him to grip the edge of his stool for stability. Thunder and turf, hehopedhe made it off this ship. If he were to do so, marriage and children and something of a legacy wasn’t the worst thing in the world. Indeed, he need only give his mother leave to choose a suitable bride and she would have a list of women for him within the hour. She was consistently trying to match Tristan and his brother with young ladies. Was there a more marriage-minded matron in England?
If Tristan asked Mother to help him, she might suffer a fit of nerves. He would need smelling salts on hand, but once the shock has subsided, Mother would undoubtedly see the task completed.
Ambrose repeated the promise, and the men continued.
If only Tristan had a drink, something to dull his anxious thoughts. But alas, if he ended up in the water, he’d need his wits about him to swim.
Running a hand through his overgrown dark brown hair, he considered some of his favorite things he’d seen during the Grand Tour. The catacombs in Paris were eerily fascinating, and the Colosseum in Rome was grand. He ran places and lessons and images of various towns through his mind, distracting himself from the present situation.
“Imagining the woman you will choose?” Charles asked, pulling Tristan from his thoughts.
Tristan welcomed the distraction. “A fine face and enough funds to keep us comfortable in London is sufficient.”
“Mother will leave you the Town house, you know.”
It was understood, at least. Charles was older by three minutes and thirteen seconds, so he would inherit their family estate, Grendale Manor, tucked in the emerald hills of Surrey. Mother’s Town house was of decent size, no garden, and situated on Curzon Street in Mayfair. It was quietly placed, near enough to the heart of the Season’s social scene to satisfy Tristan, but distant enough to be fairly quiet.
Marblegate House was perfect for Tristan, but the majority of the family funds were entailed to Charles. It was a problem for the future, though—so long as Tristan made it off this ship.
He gave his twin a genial expression. “Yes, but how will I remain in the first stare of fashion without a rich wife, Charlie?”
Charles shook his head, but the tug of his smile was enough.
Tristan inhaled the briny scent in the cabin and held onto his stool to avoid being thrown. Well, if Tristan must die young, unwed, and without children, he ought to be glad he was at his brother’s side. They were born together, had grown together, and he imagined they would do everything together for the rest of their lives.
