Chapter One
ROXLEY HOUSE
Northern England, 1788
As much as she wished to, Margaret Hollyoak could not ignore the rogue who lounged on the sofa across from her. He was simply too large. To not see him would require closing her eyes, and she was far too well-bred to even contemplate any such thing. Instead she sipped her tea and willed the seconds of this horrendous meeting to hurry by so they could both move on to something more pleasant.
Eight days.
That was how long she was trapped here. She glanced at the chaperone - a firm-faced maid her hosts had provided before heading out for a walk with Margaret’s parents. If only they’d thought to warn her of their intentions so she’d have been better prepared. At least then, she might have feigned a headache upon her arrival so she could escape upstairs to the bedchamber where she’d be staying. Instead, she’d been left in the company of a man she did not trust in what could only be described as a very transparent attempt at matchmaking.
“Since we are meant to become acquainted, perhaps it would help if we spoke,” said the rogue. He was better known as Mr. George Townsbridge, Viscount Roxley’s heir. And now he was smiling with humor in his eyes, which had the magical effect of turning the brown a dazzling shade of bronze.
It really wasn’t fair.
“After all,” he added, “the last time we met, you had your hair in plaits and enjoyed making daisy chains. A lot has happened since then, it would seem. You appear to have grown up.”
Of course he’d noticed. It would have been strange if he hadn’t. Margaret sighed. “Nothing you say would ever compel me to marry you, Mr. Townsbridge.”
He did not look the least bit affronted. “Our parents seem to have other plans.”
An inconvenience brought on by their fathers’ life-long friendship. Somehow both men had gotten it into their heads that she, a proper young lady who never made one wrong move, would agree to tie herself to a well-renowned flirt, gambler, libertine - a rake of the highest order - for the rest of her natural life. Well, it wasn’t going to happen. She had her sights set on someone else.
“Nevertheless,” she told him firmly, “I will not be your wife. And please don’t pretend you’re eager to head for the altar.”
“I am approaching an age where it would seem odd if I didn’t.”
“Another note in your disfavor.”
“How so?” His smile had turned into a smug sort of grin. There was a teasing element to it that rattled her brain and made her want to hit him. If only he’d give her a glare. Defending herself against that would be simpler.
“You are eleven years my senior, which makes you at least six years too old.”
A bark of laughter exploded from his throat, the sound so unexpected it caught Margaret completely off guard. To her dismay, she instinctively smiled. And then forced her mouth into a tighter line and added a frown for good measure before he could note her amusement.
“I’m hardly a doddering octogenarian. In fact, I’d say I’m in fairly good shape. My knees don’t creak much when I move and I can still eat solid food.”
This time, Margaret’s lips quirked before she had a chance to stop the smile that threatened. He saw - of course he did - and offered a wry grin in return.
“You’re a rake,” she said, intent on stating the most damning fact.
He merely shrugged and took a sip of his tea. His eyes never left her for one second, creating a most disconcerting swirl in the pit of her stomach. “What do you wish to imply, exactly?”
Margaret’s mouth dropped open. She actually sputtered. Surely he could not mean for her to explain the nature of being a rake. It wasn’t proper.
He set his teacup aside and, casting a swift glance at the chaperone, leaned forward and spoke to Margaret in a near whisper. “I am one and thirty years old, Miss Hollyoak. Do you really expect me to be as innocent as you?”
“I...um...don’t suppose...”
He chuckled, the sound low and somehow incredibly wicked. Its effect on her was shocking, the blush she could feel creeping into her cheeks humiliating to say the least.
“There have been courtesans by the dozen,” he said with a lazy wave of his hand, “countless buxom widows, a lovely French girl with very loose morals and—”
“Heavens. You’re just as bad as I thought. Worse, if you really must know.”
Mischief flared in his shimmering gaze. Margaret took a sharp breath. And exhaled. She set her jaw. “You’re funning me, Mr. Townsbridge.”
His grin confirmed this. It made her want to both pummel him and encourage more banter, which was rather confusing. Yet there was something about him – a jovial manner she could not dislike as much as she wished to. In fact, if she’d allow herself to relax in his presence, she had a sneaking feeling she might enjoy his company.
