Prologue
Spring 1809
Miss Katherine Montague pushed out onto the terrace and sucked in a great gulp of brisk spring air. The Rockford ball always launched the Season and was forever too crowded and loud. Tonight was no different, and Katherine rubbed her temples as she crossed the wide terrace, moving away from the estate house and toward a quiet corner where she could just…think for a moment.
There was a great deal to think about, after all. This was her second Season and it was already not going well. She had danced with two gentlemen, both of them very nice, but her father had intervened, whispering loudly for her not to be so whorish in how she leaned into them.
Leaned into them? She had done no such thing! She was too terrified to do so, after all. God forbid her father see sin in anything she did. That always resulted in punishment. From him and from the eyes of Society, which turned toward her when he berated her. She had no doubt they judged her as harshly as he did.
She hated it. Hated hearing her name on the wind. Hated watching certain gentlemen turn slightly away because they were uncertain of her fitness. Tears stung her eyes at just the thought.
“Good evening.”
She tensed and turned toward the darkness where the deep, slightly slurred voice had come from. “H-hello?”
He stepped from the shadows in one long, lazy stride and stopped about a foot away from her. Katherine’s breath caught for she knew exactly who he was.Everyoneknew who he was. One couldn’t avoid the knowledge, even if one wanted to, say, run away from it.
Robert Smithton, Duke of Roseford, grinned at her and then leaned against the terrace wall with his hip. Great Lord, but he was a handsome devil, even more so up close. He had thick dark hair that was rakishly messed like fingers had been run through it. And his dark eyes, now a bit bleary from drink, were impossible not to stare into. She could feel herself doing it now, connecting with him on an entirely inappropriate level.
“Oh, yes,” he drawled. “Averygood evening now.”
She swallowed hard and watched as those same eyes swept over her from head to toe. She felt every moment of that wicked regard.
“We’ve met before, haven’t we?” he asked.
She nodded slowly. Oh yes, they had met before. She’d been introduced to the man by an acquaintance, the Countess of Portsmith, at the end of the last Season. Charlotte’s brother had long been a friend to him, but the countess had seemed reluctant to make the introduction.
Roseford had been considerably less drunk that night, but no less focused on her. Katherine had felt a strange ache in her when he looked at her, when he repeated her name slowly.
She felt the same ache now.
And after that brief interaction? Well, her father’s rage that she would speak with such an infamous rake had been loud and insistent and cruel. She shivered and took a step away from Roseford out of a sense of self-preservation.
“We have,” she said, answering his question at last.
He smiled. “Oh dear, I know that tone. Was Iverypoorly behaved?”
Katherine worried her lip to smother the smile his teasing question drew from her. He was so very charismatic, it was hard not to be drawn to him. But he was a flame. He destroyed little moths like her without even trying hard.
She couldn’t afford that. Not with her father breathing down her neck and offeringpiousmarriages togood,decentmen who made Katherine’s skin crawl.
“Not any worse than tonight,” she said, teasing back, and then slapped a hand to her mouth. What on earth was she doing?
He tilted his head back and laughed, and Katherine stopped backing up. He was…fun. Everyone knew it. That was his reputation, after all: fun. Katherine had never been allowed to have much fun in her life. Not since her mother’s death when she was very young.
Her father didn’t like fun.
“What was your name again?” he asked when his laughter had faded.
She pursed her lips. Apparently, she had not made the same impression on him as he had on her. But why would she? She was the drab daughter of a second son. He was…him. A god amongst men. A god amongst gods.
“Katherine Montague, Your Grace,” she said.
He extended a hand and she stared at it. He wasn’t wearing gloves. She had taken hers off after getting hot inside. Skin would touch skin. There was something wicked about that fact. Something naughty. Something that doubled the tingle she felt when she looked at him.
“I don’t bite,” he said with another smile. “Not unless it’s what the lady likes.”
Katherine felt heat flooding her cheeks, and somehow she managed to take a step closer and hold out her hand. When he took it, his warm, rough fingers enveloped hers. To her surprise, he did not shake her hand, but lifted it to his mouth. Just before he brushed his lips over her knuckles, he said, “The Duke of Roseford at your service, Miss Montague.”
