Chapter One
The scent ofroses, beeswax, and far too much perfume lingered in the parlor at Lady Wilmot’s country home in Sommer-by-the-Sea. Heat pressed at the back of Leticia’s neck. Her fan was a poor defense against the prickle of rising impatience. The weather had begun its slow shift into autumn, and with it came the first of the indoor entertainments, a musicale. Lady Leticia Salisbury stood near the refreshment table, fanning her cousin Felicity’s dance card with thinning patience. Across the room, the girl had vanished into a cluster of young ladies fluttering around the footmen who’d just brought in a fresh tray of ratafia cakes.
The musicale had been her aunt’s idea, respectable enough, with just over sixty guests, a competent quartet, and more conversation than music. Leticia had agreed to attend. A favor, nothing more. Her only duty was to chaperone, guide, and ensure her cousin didn’t flirt too freely, overindulge in sugared almonds, or commit the unforgivable sin of dancing with the same young man twice. It had taken less than an hour for Leticia to regret every syllable of her promise.
She looked down at the card. “Three blank spaces,” she muttered, and turned toward the edge of the room just as the orchestra launched into a country reel. Laughter erupted from the far corner.
“Lady Leticia?” someone called, far too brightly.
She turned. Mr. Denby, freckled, flushed, and already waving, headed straight toward her, something white clutched in his hand. A misplaced glove, perhaps, or a crumpled handkerchief. Or, heavenhelp her, another poorly composed poem about her cousin’s smile. Her stomach sank. Poor Felicity would never survive another verse about her dimples.
Leticia took a decisive step forward, intent on intercepting him before he reached the punch bowl and said goodbye to his dignity.
Unfortunately, someone else moved at the exact moment, and they collided at the corner of the table. Her slipper grazed the heel of a well-polished boot, and she let out a softoofas a firm hand caught her elbow.
“Terribly sorry,” she murmured, regaining her balance.
“I believe that’s yours,” said the gentleman.
Leticia looked down. Her cousin’s dance card had fallen to the floor. She bent to retrieve it just as he did. Their fingers brushed.
“A dance card,” he said, glancing at the names. “And I see I’m on it. Twice.”
She arched a brow. “Are you?”
He studied the card for a moment and gave a quiet huff of amusement. “That explains it. This isn’t yours.”
She reached for it. “No. It’s my cousin’s.”
“I owe her an apology,” he said, handing it over, “and my friend a warning. Too much time and far too little supervision.”
Before she could respond, two gentlemen approached, untitled, judging by the look of them, their gait, and their complete disregard for the sanctity of conversation gave them away.
“There he is,” said the taller of the two, clapping the stranger’s shoulder. “Ash, romancing young ladies already?”
“He’s fulfilling the obligations,” said the other with a grin. “It’s in the patent, you know, romance, charm, and a fondness for dreadful poetry, just beneath property rights and moral deportment.”
Leticia’s gaze sharpened.Ash. Short for Ashcombe. Baron Ashcombe. The name suited him. Crisp. Precise. Quietly inconvenient.
Ash sighed, as though he’d been suffering fools all evening. Hisshoulders stayed square, feet planted with a soldier’s steadiness. This was no idle society man.
“Gentlemen, your timing is as impeccable as your taste in fiction.”
“We aim to please,” said the taller one with mock solemnity. “Carry on,” he said with a careless wave of his hand.
The pair drifted off, and Leticia tucked the card into her reticule, amusement flickering at the corners of her mouth.
Once again, the music began.
Ash turned back to her. “May I have the honor of this dance?”
She hesitated. “I’m afraid you’re not on my card.”
“Perhaps I can remedy that, at least unofficially,” he said. “One dance. No mischief. No poetry.”
She studied him for a moment. He stood with unhurried confidence, no smile, no posturing. Just waiting.
The orchestra struck up another country reel. Across the room, Mr. Denby had reached her aunt and was bowing toward her cousin, clearly congratulating himself on delivering whatever he’d been holding. Her cousin looked horrified.
