Page 1

Chapter 1

Finley Park, Surrey 1772

“No girls may enter my tree house.”

Rosalind Ainsworth placed her hands on her hips and glared at the foliage above her head. “I am not a girl; I am a young lady.”

Lord Hartford’s face appeared through the greenery. “You are a girl.” Sebastian Lumley, the future Duke of Kelbrook, was nothing if not dogmatic. “But even if you were a young lady, it would not matter. This is my fortress, and until we are married and I am obligated to admit you, you may not come up.”

At eleven years of age, Rosalind had given marriage little more than a fleeting thought. But this much she knew: she would never marry the ill-mannered fourteen-year-old currently shouting at her from the midst of the large oak tree on the grounds of Finley Park. “If marriage to you is my requirement for entry, I shall never set foot in it.”

“Yes, you will.” His scowl matched her own. “When you are one-and-twenty. My father told me so.”

Rosalind barely caught her vehement denial before it burst forth. Although some might consider her still a girl, she had sufficient training to know that one never contradicted a duke, even when what he purportedly said was ludicrous. She clenched her fists. “Jonas, I am returning to the house,” she called.

“Very well.” Her younger brother’s voice floated down to her. By virtue of his gender, he was already encamped in Lord Hartford’s lofty fort, and although she recognized the hint of regret in his words, she knew he would not sacrifice his opportunity to play in the tree house to keep her company.

Turning her back on the oak tree and its male occupants, she marched away with her head held high. The unfairness of the situation stung, but at least she could have the satisfaction of proving Lord Hartford wrong. Her father may be merely a viscount, but his word was as good as the duke’s. He would tell her exactly how she could refute the infuriating young nobleman’s claim that she would one day be his wife. And tomorrow, after she had put Lord Hartford right, her family would leave Finley Park and she need never speak to the irritant again.

The sound of voices penetrated Rosalind’s stormy thoughts, and she turned to see her mother and the duchess walking together through the rose garden on the other side of the expansive lawn. The flowers were in bloom, and Rosalind knew full well that her mother would linger there as long as possible. Rose gardens were one of Lady Langton’s favorite places.

Not wishing to settle for doing something so demure when she could have been climbing a rope ladder into a tree, Rosalind veered away from the ladies and toward the house’s large stone terrace. Raising her skirts, she hurried up the eleven stairs—she knew there were eleven because she had counted them on her way down—and ran across the smooth flagstones to the french doors leading to the library. At the threshold, she paused a moment for her eyes to adjust to the dimmer light.

“Well, good afternoon, young lady. Have you been enjoying the Finley Park grounds?”

Her father, Lord Langton, sat in a capacious leather armchair beside the fireplace, a thick book on his knee.

“Not really,” she said, her shoulders drooping. Now that she was indoors and away from Lord Hartford’s eyes, there was no need to keep up the appearance of indifference.

“Dear me. That is not the response I expected from someone who has been given the freedom to explore the grounds of one of the finest houses in England.”

“Not complete freedom,” Rosalind said. “I was not allowed into Lord Hartford’s tree house.”

Her father set his book on the corner table beside his chair. “And why is that, child?”

“Because I am a girl.” Hot tears pricked her eyes, but whether they were caused by frustration or disappointment, she could not tell.

“Ah, I see.” Her father patted the spot beside him on the chair. She crossed the room quickly and squeezed into the small space. Her father put his arm around her shoulders and drew her close. “Am I to assume that your brother is currently in said tree house?”

“Yes. Jonas is two years younger than me, but he was allowed in simply because he’s a boy.”

“Perhaps Lord Hartford wished to spare you the difficulty of climbing up the ladder in a gown.”

“He cannot possibly care about that. My gowns will surely be bigger and wider when I am one-and-twenty.”

Her father frowned. “What does being one-and-twenty have to do with climbing the ladder?”

“Lord Hartford said I cannot enter the tree house until we are married and that the duke told him the wedding would occur when I turn one-and-twenty.” Rosalind stiffened. “But he is wrong. I will never marry someone so odious as Lord Hartford.”

Her father remained uncharacteristically silent.

She stole a glance at him. At the sight of the troubled lines creasing his brow, the first whisper of unease entered her heart. “Father?”

“Lord Hartford is correct, Rosalind. The marriage agreement between the two of you was written when you were an infant. It states that you are to be wed when you reach your twenty-first birthday.”

If Rosalind could have leaped from the chair, she would have. As it was, her father’s arm held her in place even as his devastating words sank into her heart. “You cannot mean that. I would rather never marry at all than marry Lord Hartford.”

Her father shook his head. “I do not think you will feel the same when you are older.”