CHAPTER ONE
Surrey, October 1818, The Duke of Southbury’s Country Estate
Wearing nothing but her chemise and a silk dressing gown that clung to her body like mist, Lady Clare Handleton moved soundlessly down the dim corridor. The chill of the marble staircase seeped into her bare feet as she descended, her fingers trailing absently along the polished banister. The weight of silence pressed against her, heavy and familiar. Darkness swallowed the grand foyer, broken only by the pale glow of moonlight spilling through the high windows. Her breath was steady, her pulse an old, familiar drum against her ribs.
She had grown accustomed to moving in the dark, and she knew these halls. She was in her dearest friend’s country home, after all. Meredith Brooks and her husband, Griffin, the Duke of Southbury, were two of her only friends. They had stayed loyal when all others had long since disappeared.
The grand foyer stretched before her, awash in silver moonlight, its vastness making her feel small. But she ignoredthe sensation, as she always did. Pushing forward, she made her way down another long corridor and slipped through Southbury’s study door with the ease of someone who had spent years mastering the art of going unnoticed.
Not that she cared whether she was noticed any longer.
She closed the door with careful precision and crossed to the sideboard. The crystal decanter gleamed in the soft light, and without hesitation, she lifted it, pouring two fingers of the duke’s finest brandy into a heavy glass.
The first sip burned, a slow, spreading warmth winding through her. She exhaled, long and leisurely, letting her head tip back as the tension in her limbs melted away. Her unbound blonde hair cascaded past her waist, and for the first time that day, she allowed herself the illusion of peace.
Until a voice shattered it.
“Couldn’t sleep?”
It was a deep, male voice. Rich, husky, sinful. Unmistakably amused.
Clare didn’t startle. She had mastered the art of concealment years ago—never let them see, never let them know.
She forced her eyes open, turning toward the voice with deliberate slowness, as though she had all the time in the world. Another trick she’d mastered over the last eleven years.
The study was steeped in shadow, but she knew instantly who he was. And it wasn’t the duke.
The voice was too smooth, too practiced in the ways of troublemaking.
She took a step forward, and as she did, the moonlight shifted, revealing him.
Ah. So itwashim.
Plenty of trouble. Or could be, depending on how this conversation unfolded.
Ashford Drake, the Marquess of Trentham and Meredith’s older brother, sat there. His tall, muscled form sprawled with the kind of ease that suggested he belonged anywhere he chose. The sharp cut of his cheekbones, the knowing tilt of his lips—everything about him radiated mischief, barely concealed beneath a veneer of aristocratic boredom.
And damn him, he was watching her with a look shefelt.
“You?” she asked, lifting her glass to her lips again, meeting his gaze without hesitation.
Trentham unfolded himself from the chair with the effortless grace of a predator stretching after a long, indulgent rest. In a few unhurried strides, he stood before her. Close enough that she could smell the faint trace of his expensive cologne and something even more arousing beneath it—something undeniablymale.
“Something like that,” he murmured, his voice roughened by amusement.
Before she could react, he plucked the glass from her fingers, the heat of his touch lingering against her skin. He lifted it to his lips, taking a slow, deliberate sip as he held her gaze.
“This is Southbury’s finest brandy,” he noted, his voice all lazy observation.
“I know,” she replied. “That’s why I wanted it.”
A slow grin curved his lips. “Does he know you’re here?”
“Does he knowyou’rehere?” she countered, arching a brow at him. She’d long ago stopped answering questions simply because they were asked. Another art.
Trentham laughed—low, quiet, and far too pleased.
“Don’t you know?” she mused, stepping just a fraction closer, her voice dipped in the kind of defiance that had earned her her reputation. “You’re speaking to Lady Clare Handleton, better known as Scandalton.”There. That should tell him how little she cared for rules.
