PROLOGUE
Once upon a time a daughter of Gannibal, the Black Russian prince who was the godson of Peter the Great, had a maddening affair with a British diplomat, an heir to a ducal peerage.
Soon came a marriage,
a maverick son,
and a malevolent spirit that went against the young lovers.
Wed to the rivers of Saint Petersburg, she wouldn’t leave. Overlooking the sneers of London, to the wealth he cleaved.
The marriage ended.
The couple separated forever and taught a son that love doesn’t win.
Then the son became a man and found a love so true, but he gambled and lost.
His heart never recovered, and he vowed to reclaim every material thing that was meant to be his and more.
Wagering that time and distance and money made things change, the son discovered he was right, very right and alone.
Then a summons changes everything.
Can a bridge and a bet correct the past? It’s a gamble a man of the line Gannibal will risk to win all that his soul has lost.
Chapter 1
MARKSEBASTIAN, SON OF THEMARQUESS OFPRAHMN—THEWRONGSIDE OFTOWN
March 1, 1816
London, England
Never admit falling in love with a portrait.
Never talk of how the eyes of the painting followed me along the halls of Kenwood, or how the joy in her sun-kissed cheeks stayed on my mind.
Never utter a word of how a voiceless woman made of oils and canvas, not sugar and spice and other niceties, captivated my dreams.
Said aloud this would be the ravings of a madman, not an artist who hungered for beauty. I tried not to think of the painting or my foolish whispers said to her and rode a little faster to keep up with my so-called friendly companions.
“Will you be seeing her later, Sebastian?” Alexander Melton, the Earl of Livingston, hiccupped and wobbled in his saddle. “You can tell us.”
“Leave the musician alone. We’ve had enough jokes at his expense. Artists are temperamental sorts, but that spurs their creativity.” The Duke of Torrance was a new acquaintance that Livingston and I met at a Farrington coaching inn. Before I could stop him, the earl gleefully told my story of being in love with the painted woman.
The duke, a tall man on a silver mare, looked confused for most of this. I wondered if foolish conversations differed greatly from crazy things said in Saint Petersburg. Half British, half Russian, he seemed distant or perhaps nervous.
“Will you be in town long, Your Grace?” I asked, hoping to change subjects.
“My current plans are up in the air. Once I get this first visit done, I will determine how long I reside in London.”
He and Livingston began to discuss the perfect places to live.
My shame lifted and I secretly thought of living at Kenwood, being a music tutor and getting to see the painting every day.
“Sebastian? Sebastian?”
“Yes. Livingston.” My cheeks burned. Then I relaxed, remembering the man couldn’t read thoughts, only newspapers and science journals. “Did you say something?”
