Prologue
SUTTON MANOR, LONDON - NOVEMBER 25, 1813
TOM
The ceremony hadn’t beenbeautiful. Nor was the wedding breakfast any sort of improvement. No, the best that could be said was that it was expensive.
My new sister recited her vows with barely restrained tears, a tensile note in her voice. I could not blame her for the reaction, not with the twisted set of my brother’s mouth when he had deigned to glance her way—Hugh really could be an arse when he put his mind to it.
With the utter failure of Hugh’s marital prospects, my mother’s gaze had turned toward me. I was barely eight and ten—hardly in society at all—but she’d already thrust three frippery-covered misses in my direction that morning. Every single one had been as indistinguishable as the last.
The one presently seeking my favor had light hair with an oversized bow in it. Every time her head bobbed—which was often as she seemed determined to agree with everything I said—it flapped about despondently. Surely, it was intended to match the bow on her dress, but that had been severely starched and satstiff like two peaks directly atop her ample bosom—which was almost certainly the intended effect.
The lady and I had already exhausted the readily available topics, the ceremony and weather. And no person of any taste could admire the decorations the Dowager Duchess of Sutton had chosen on the occasion of her niece’s wedding.
“Your—um—your dress is very fine, Miss Kensington.” It was a safe enough topic; ladies liked compliments and I knew little enough about her to compliment anything else.
“Thank you, Mr. Grayson. My maid said it suited my coloring, but I wasn’t certain.” Her voice could not possibly be that high-pitched naturally. Could it?
“Yes, it looks lovely with your—eyes.”
Her eyes had been the wrong choice. Her head tilted to the side in puzzlement and her brow dipped low. “It does?”
“Yes…” Christ, I hated speaking to ladies. And why was my cravat so tight?
“My dress is orange. My eyes are blue.”
“Yes…” Damn, I wouldn’t have guessed orange on the dress.
It had taken years to recognize that my eyes worked—or rather, didn’t work—differently from other people’s. And even longer before I understood precisely how. Where everyone else perceived distinctive colors, I saw shades of what I now knew as brown. I could identify the tone, and there were a few colors I was better at guessing than others. But I could never be sure.
“You have unusual tastes, Mr. Grayson. If you’ll excuse me, my mother is in need of me.”
I bowed, resisting the accompanying eye roll. She was probably envisioning our future home—entirely too garish to abide.
This wasn’t my first fumble with a lady, and I suspected it wouldn’t be the last. I couldn’t lament my failure and I wouldn’t miss her companionship.
My condition hadn’t become a serious concern yet, nor was my utter inability to converse with eligible misses. I certainly hadn’t found one I had any interest in actually impressing. But at some point, it might prove an impediment.
Mother had thrown a fair few ladies in my direction after Hugh announced that he, in her words“meant to honor his fraudulently brought about engagement to the deceitful, scheming strumpet.”So she needed“a daughter who wouldn’t shame the entire family.”
It stood to reason, with the sheer volume of options Mother was shoving in front of me, that at leastonewould catch my eye. Thus far, such a lady had proved elusive.
Each of the ladies had been perfectly pretty in a rather bland sort of way. Their gowns were fine, decorated with laces and ribbons and baubles. They were tiny, delicate, fragile things with even temperaments and banal conversation. Topics were restricted to the recent weather, the present weather, the upcoming weather, recent balls, present balls, upcoming balls. The encounters were a slow, Sisyphean kind of torture.
I ducked behind a potted plant to extend my reprieve. Mother was in the center of the tulle-covered hell, too busy feigning a preening delight for all the guests to be occupied with matchmaking. She smiled and thanked as though she had not but two hours ago begged Hugh to leave the new Lady Grayson at the altar.
Her present efforts were impressive. If I hadn’t caught each and every glower at the bride, I would have thought her pleased with the match.
She wasn’t though. No, it seemed that our hostess, the Dowager Duchess of Sutton, was the only one pleased with this turn of events. The marriage was a fair victory to crow over. She’d secured a viscount for her unfortunate miss of a niece.
A bony hand grasped my elbow and yanked me forward. Somehow, I’d missed Mother’s distinctive scent of lilacs and decay, and she’d found time in her schedule between artificial gratitude and seething, viscous glowers to return to her matchmaking.
“His Grace, the Duke of Rosehill,” she hissed as she dragged me along. “He has an unwed sister and a widowed former sister-in-law under his charge. You met them once—last year.”
“Mother…” It was a half-hearted protest. I’d learned long ago to choose my battles with her, and making nice with a duke’s sister for a few moments or chatting with a lonely widow wasn’t worth the argument.
She pulled me along, claws digging into the wool of my coat until she paused in front of?—
