Chapter One
Saturday, 16 July 1814
Stella Ashley’s residence, Bloomsbury, London
Quarter after two in the morning
Lord Mark Rydelladjusted his somewhat dingy white cravat, bending to check its appearance in the mirror of Stella’s dressing table, his notoriety much on his mind. Established well before his time on the Peninsula fighting alongside his brothers, his nefarious reputation had been studiously curated since his return. Being absolutely appalling to well-bred ladies had become a beneficial hobby. And keeping Stella, an actress with her own spurious reputation, comfortable and well-funded in this Bloomsbury town home, helped feed all the rumors about his dubious character.
This pleased Mark to no end. A useful thing this reputation of his, which kept marriage-minded waifs and their mamas at bay and gave him the freedom to pursue far-less-noble pursuits.
His mother, however, would be disgusted by his current location. His oldest brother, Matthew, the current Duke of Embleton, would merely scold, a touch of humor in the words.
Still... Mark did try to keep up his physical appearance, his preference for elegant and well-made black-and-white kits as much a part of that reputation as his mistress. His valet would be annoyed by the state of the silk. Wrinkled, of course, as ithad most recently been wound around the voluptuous actress’s wrists.
Mark truly did not care what his family—or his valet—thought, however, as they knew him well, and how much of his reputation was merely a façade with a purpose.
To make people leave him alone.
Besides, his valet, Howe, existed in a state of apoplexy more often than not, ever since the war had made the fripperies of English dandies a bore and a bother to Mark—thus the black-and-white kits. But Mark did appreciate Howe’s attention to detail; thus he straightened and smoothed the cravat as much as he could.
Behind him came a sound—half-moan, half-purr—from the bed. Appropriate, he thought, as Stella was a bit of a cat. Her voice slurred as she pushed thick blonde tresses out of her face, the words husky and elongated. “Why are you dressed? You could stay the night, you know.” She pouted. “You never do anymore. Not since you got back from that bloody war.”
Mark tugged on the cravat again, then rolled his shoulders, fatigue dragging them down. “I need to return home. My family breakfasts at eight. I have no interest in dealing with my mother’s complaints about any overnight absences.”
Stella rolled and stretched, her lovely, plump form and luring gaze a distinct invitation to return to her bed. “Who eats that early? I thought the nobility never emerged before noon.”
“A myth, except during the season. And you have never met my mother. Or my brother. One thinks he is still in military service to the Crown. The other might as well have been. The household routine does not vary even if we have not returned home until dawn, and Mother is rather traditional in her household scheduling. Breakfast is on the sideboard precisely at eight and removed by half-past nine. Luncheon at one. Dinner at half-past five, unless there are guests or an event. Tea at eight,unless my mother decides otherwise or if guests have arrived. Supper precisely at ten. Or never.”
“How annoying. Sounds far too tedious and routine for you.” She stretched and lolled again, her smile turning as mischievous as the gleam in her brown eyes. “You should introduce us. I could entice them to change their ways.”
The thought amused him. If such an event occurred, however, he would have to stand well away from either his brother the duke or his mother, the formidable duchess Phyllida. Their response would be... explosive. “I am fairly certain my mother would prefer to see you on the stage than in her son’s arms.”
“How delightfully dull of her.”
Mark chuckled. Despite her teasing, Stella well knew her limited role in Mark’s life. And of his in hers. A role that had gradually become even more limited over the last few weeks, his mind elsewhere. “Do you need anything?”
She sat up, letting the covers fall away as she left the bed and reached for a dressing gown. “My bill at the modiste’s is overdue.”
He nodded, appreciating her body but not tempted to linger any longer. “The one here in Bloomsbury?”
“Yes. She is quite patient, but—”
“I will take care of it. Anything else?”
“Will you be at tonight’s opening?”
Mark hesitated, tilting his head to one side as he considered the possibility. Stella Ashley, one of London’s most-favored actresses, sold out any theater at which she appeared. Her performances were pure delights, and tickets were always in demand. But his mother’s plans for him took precedence, including tonight. The duchess had become rather determined to see him marry this season, despite his repeated insistence that he would not. His mother believed all men should marry bythirty, and at six and thirty, he was well past her deadline. Mark acquiesced to her invitations in part to keep the peace—and in part because he did enjoy meeting new women. He liked women. All of them. A great many of them in the past.
Long in the past.
“Not tonight,” he murmured. “I am escorting my mother to the Huntingdale ball. She is unfortunately determined to find me a bride.”
“I suppose it would be selfish of me to hope she fails.” Stella tied the sash of her dressing gown, even as she still undulated toward him, her hands rubbing across his shoulders. “You really should wear something more colorful. You are too handsome to spend your life in black and white.”
This had been a constant campaign of hers, almost as persistent as his mother’s for marriage. “I had more than adequate experience with bright colors in the army, thank you. Black and white suits me.”
“It does not suit you. It makes you appear much duller than you are.” Stella pressed her breasts against his chest. “So will you be there tomorrow?”
