But the wild speculation was half the fun.
By half past midnight, the rumors had reached all the way to March House, a prestigious gentleman’s club that specialized in high stakes gambling, beautiful women, and discretion. It swept through the elegant mahogany bars and across the felt card tables like wildfire, leaving a myriad of reactions in its wake.
Amazement.
Disbelief.
Shock.
One gentleman in particular, however, had a distinctlydifferentresponse.
Tall and black haired, with blue eyes that could slice like a knife and a mouth capable of great cruelty, the Duke of Southwick merely lifted a brow when word of his wife’s planned indiscretion traveled to the far corner of the club where he was lounging against a wall, drink in hand.
“You don’t say,” he murmured, and the Earl of Calvern, who had divulged the news, paled considerably when he realized to just whom he was speaking.
“I—I... please forgive me, Your Grace.”
Southwick—better known to what close friends he had by his Christian name of Ambrose—sipped his brandy. “For what?”
A bead of sweat formed at the earl’s receding hairline and began a slow, trickling descent. “Ah... I... that is...”
“You have not caused me undue offense, Calvern.”
“I haven’t?” Calvern expelled an audible sigh of relief. “Are you certain?”
Ambrose’s smile did not touch the corners of his eyes. “If my darling wife manages to snare herself a lover, I’ll be the first to offer my congratulations.”
“I... I’m afraid I don’t understand.”
“The duchess is as cold as the ice that you’re using to water down perfectly good brandy. There’s no man in England who would want to climb into bed beside her.” Ambrose drained what remained of his drink, then set the empty glass aside for a servant to pick up. “I know that I don’t. If you’ll excuse me, Calvern, I’ve spied a more entertaining companion over there.”
The duke walked away, but his absence did nothing to diminish the rumors. If anything, his callous remarks—repeated in hushed tones again and again—enflamed them to a fever pitch, and by the end of the night all of London was on fire.
Chapter One
The Next Day
Southwick Castle, Derbyshire, England
Completely oblivious tothe gossip that was taking thetonby storm, Marabelle Anne Buxton, Duchess of Southwick, was in her rose garden with her hands in the cool spring soil when her sister, Lady Katherine Colborne, came to call.
The siblings, three years apart in age, were as different as night was from day. Demure and soft-spoken, Mara (as she preferred to be called) enjoyed books, gardening, and composing music while Kitty had always been drawn to more adventurous activities including, but not limited to, horseback riding, tight-rope walking, and sneaking out of her bedroom window to meet any manner of midnight suitor.
Even their appearances were opposite, with Mara taking after their father and Kitty their mother. As a result, Mara had dark auburn hair, solemn brown eyes, and a willowy thin build while Kitty was blonde, blue eyed, and voluptuous.
Then there was the little fact that Kitty was wildly in love with her new husband, while Mara was... not.
“Thereyou are,” Kitty declared as she came skipping across the lawn, the hem of her emerald-green traveling habit dragging on what remained of the silvery morning frost. “I’ve been looking everywhere. I was half afraid that pack of wild dogs that’s been roaming around ate you for their breakfast.” She stopped, her nose wrinkling. “What are you doing?”
“If I don’t remove the old growth, there won’t be any room for new,” Mara said calmly as she snipped off a dead rose and tossed it into the tin pail beside her. “So I’m pruning.”
“Yes, I can see that.” Gloved hands on her round hips, Kitty frowned down at her sister. “But why areyoudoing it? Where’s your gardener? For heaven’s sake, Mara. You’re on your hands and knees. It’s not seemly.”
Swiping a bead of sweat from her brow, Mara sank onto her haunches, having been ready to take a rest even before Kitty arrived. The weather had been unseasonably warm and wet for early March. Generally this time of year she came out wearing a jacket, overcoat, and even a scarf. But today, with the sun uncovered by clouds, she wore only a light lace shawl over a plain brown dress that had witnessed many a spring gardening season.
“Who is here to see me besides you? Mr. Burrow is tending to the orchards over the hill, and both of his sons were needed elsewhere. We’re reseeding the timothy fields today,” she said with no small amount of pride. “For the most even rows, it’s best if you have multiple people start off at the same—”
“I can assure you that I don’t care,” Kitty interrupted. “Honestly. Pruning roses. Seeding Thomas fields—”
