PROLOGUE
LONDON, APRIL 1815
“Your Grace,” Hopkins, the butler, called through the door. “You have a guest to see you.”
Maxwell Warren, the Duke of Marrowhurst, surveyed the Scotch in his crystal Glencairn glass, swirling the amber liquid contemplatively. So lost in his thought was he that he’d barely heard the knock on his library door.
Maxwell clicked his tongue impatiently. This was the eve of his wedding; he knew of no one who would interrupt him.
Or so he had thought.
“Send him in,” he said, putting his Scotch back on the small table before him. It was a cold spring, and the embers of the fire still glowed in the hearth.
The door opened, and a distinctly unmasculine figure stepped into the room. Hopkins followed, looking decidedly disgruntled.
“Lady Thalia,” he said, attempting to recover his dignity. “Here to see His Grace.”
The lady dipped into a hurried curtsy. Maxwell rose, hardly aware of what he was doing.
Why is Lady Thalia here? Alone? Unchaperoned? On the eve of our marriage?
At the sight of her, all disheveled curls and flushed cheeks, his libido rose in a rather disconcerting way. If she were here for a pre-wedding tumble, she would find herself disappointed.
Though he could not deny he was tempted.
This was the first time they had met, and he had not expected such a seductively pretty lady. All soft curves and shuddering breaths.
“Your Grace,” she gasped. “Thank you for seeing me.”
“As though I had a choice in the matter.” He glanced at Hopkins. “That will be all.”
Hopkins did his best not to react, but Maxwell could see the disappointment cross his face. “Yes, sir.” He inclined his head and closed the library door on his way out.
Maxwell folded his arms. No matter how pretty the girl might be, she had still come to his home unheralded.
“Lady Thalia.”
“Your Grace.” She curtsied.
His eyes roamed over her figure, taking in every soft, feminine line of hers.
“Since no introductions are needed, I shall skip the niceties. What are you doing in my house?” he asked.
She raised her head, lifting her chin as though she half expected him to strike her.
“Your Grace,” she said dramatically, “please do not insist on marrying me.”
Maxwell blinked. He opened his mouth, then closed it again. He had not insisted on anything; her father had been the one to arrange things.
“Insist?” He raised a brow. “I have not initiated any part of the proceedings.”
Her tongue moistened her lips, and he found his attention drawn to that small motion. That small kick of lust upon seeing her grew, and he frowned in irritation. Really, this was quite outof hand. Not what he had expected or hoped for from a marriage at all.
“Then you will have no issues with telling my father that you no longer wish to go through with it.”
His fingers tightened slightly on his arms. “If you have some concern about me, my lady, then you might do me the honor of bringing it to my attention.”
Those pretty cheeks of hers flushed still further. “This has nothing to do with you, Your Grace, but I must inform you that at no point did I consent to this match. My father insisted on pressing ahead despite my objections, and so I was left with no choice but to approach you directly.”
