London
July 1802
Four Years Later
Anne Northcote, the Countess of Wynters, crept into the foyer of the Falmouth mansion, naked but for a sheet of black lace net.
At least, she mused grimly, that was how she appeared.
In truth, the black net was fully lined with beige muslin. But the muslin matched Anne’s skin tone so closely, at first glance it gave the illusion that... that...
That she wasn’t wearing anything beneath the net.
Oh, this dress was a terrible idea. Her little sister Caroline’s terrible idea, to be specific. Anne’s husband, Lord Wynters, had died in his sleep precisely one year ago, and tonight was her reentry into polite society. Anne never had time to keep up with the latest styles, and after a year spent in mourning, her wardrobe was badly out of fashion. Asking her stylish little sister to commission a few gowns for her had seemed like the perfect solution.
This scandal of a dress was apparently Caro’s notion of half mourning. Anne felt her cheeks flush beneath the rouge her maid had applied.
Rouge! She never wore rouge, but she was wearing it tonight, and lip pomade, too. Along with a crimson hothouse rose tucked behind her ear, and a black lace mask to match her gown.
Halfway across the foyer, Anne decided she couldn’t go through with it.
Really, considering the day she’d had, who could blame her?
Her shoulders slumped as she thought of the messenger who had called upon her earlier, bringing tidings of her impending humiliation. No, pasting on a false smile and pretending to enjoy herself, knowing that everyone here would be laughing at her tomorrow morning, would only make things worse. She would make an excuse to Lady Falmouth and—
“Just where do you think you’re going?”
Anne steeled herself before she turned. “I’m feeling unwell, Mama.”
“Are you?” Georgiana Astley, the Countess of Cheltenham, circled Anne like a shark, eyeing her from behind her peacock-feathered lorgnette mask.
Anne wrung her hands. “It’s nothing, just a headache—”
Lady Cheltenham snapped her mask down. “Stop slouching. We both know your discomfort has nothing to do with your head and everything to do with that dress.”
“It’s not the dress.”
Her mother cocked a skeptical eyebrow.
Anne sighed. How like her mother to see right through her. “At least, not entirely. I do feel a bit ridiculous. But I—I received some bad news.”
“What happened, dear?”
Anne closed her eyes. “I am to be the subject of a cartoon.”
The countess frowned. “A cartoon? What do you mean, a cartoon?”
“This morning I intervened on behalf of a chimney sweep’s apprentice stuck in a flue in Holborn. The boy survived,” Anne said, seeing consternation fill her mother’s eyes. “I was able to persuade the building’s owner to open up the wall to cut him out.”
“Of course you did.” Her mother puffed out her chest. “That’s my girl.”
“But the owner was very resistant to damaging his building on account of a lowly sweep, and in order to sway him, I had to be a bit”—Anne waved a hand, searching for the right word—“fervent.”
The countess arched an eyebrow. “Fervent?”
“You might even say vehement.”
“What did you say, darling?”
Anne knotted her hands. “I might have shouted that he should be ashamed of himself, that he had no right to call himself a Christian, and if he didn’t let us open up that wall, I would make sure his name was on the front page of every newspaper in London tomorrow. In front of a crowd of two hundred,” she added in a rush.
The countess flipped open her fan. “Considering a child’s life was at stake, I think you had the right of it.”
“Yes, and in truth, I wouldn’t do anything differently, if that is what it took to save the boy. But a cartoon is to be printed tomorrow, picturing me dressed in a Roman helmet, towering over a cowering man. I am shown prodding him with a spear and reciting a version of my speech. The caption reads, ‘Lady W, London’s very own virago.’”
“How do you know this?” her mother demanded.
“A messenger came by the Ladies’ Society’s offices today.”
“Darling, perhaps it’s not as bad as you—”
“It is. I saw it.” Anne looked away, feeling tears forming in her eyes.
Her mother stepped forward and took her hands. “Oh, darling, I know it’s unpleasant. But this cartoon will be forgotten in a week’s time. You’ll see. Besides, you should wear this as a badge of honor. If someone isn’t saying something nasty about you, it only means you aren’t worth remarking upon.”
Anne sighed. Her mother would have considered it an honor, just as her mother could have worn this dress with her head held high. Anne had always marveled at her mother’s (and sister’s) unwavering confidence.
But she just wasn’t like that.
“The point is,” Anne said, “I’m not much in the mood for a ball.”
“Have you considered,” Lady Cheltenham said carefully, “that a little diversion might be exactly what you need?”
“I doubt I’ll find any tonight. I’ll probably spend most of the evening standing in the corner, as usual.”
Her mother snorted. “You do not stand in the corner so much as hide in the corner. If you would stop doing that, your dance card would be full every night.”
“Mama,” Anne protested, “my dance card has never been full. Not even once.”
“That’s because when you came out, you spent all of three weeks on the Marriage Mart before accepting the first proposal you received. And you spent most of those three weeks hiding in the ladies’ retiring room.”
This was a difficult point to argue, as her mother’s facts were essentially correct. Not that she had drawn the right conclusion. “Are you saying I shouldn’t have accepted Lord Wynters?”
“Not if that was what you truly wanted. Just that there was no need to be so hasty about it.”
Anne struggled to keep a note of accusation out of her voice. “It’s just that—you were the one who always used to comment on how I was going to be a countess someday. Or sometimes you would say marchioness.” She bit her lip. “I understood my duty. When Lord Wynters proposed, I knew it was my only chance to marry someone of the rank and standing you and Papa expected—”
“Oh, my darling child.” Her mother’s eyes were full of sorrow as she took Anne’s hands and pressed them. “How I wish I had never said a word. Had I known how thoroughly you misunderstood me—” The countess broke off, looking down. “The point is, had you given it a little more time, you would have had a dozen proposals from which to choose.”
“No, I wouldn’t have. I’m not like you, Mama. I’m… boring and plain.”
Her mother had been hailed as the most beautiful woman of her generation, with her honey-blonde hair and her stunning blue eyes. The Astley eyes, they were called, as five of Anne’s six siblings also had them.
Anne, on the other hand, had plain brown hair and plain brown eyes. She was the only daughter not to inherit her mother’s beautiful eyes.
And she knew vanity to be a sin, but sometimes she felt like a plow horse in a family of unicorns.
“You are neither of those things,” her mother insisted.
But with the prospect of having to re-enter the Marriage Mart hanging over her like an axe, Anne had spent the past year musing upon the many things that rendered her unmarriageable, and now they came pouring out. “I’m boring. I’m plain. I spend too much time on my charity work. I didn’t produce a child in three years of marriage—”
“No one will hold that against you. Everyone knows Lord Wynters didn’t father a single child in any of his three marriages.”
“—I’m a virago—”
The countess huffed. “I, for one, would consider that a compliment.”
“—and I’m too tall,” Anne concluded.
Her mother scowled. “You most certainly are not.”
“Of course I am.” Anne laughed. She was only two inches shy of six feet. How her mother could even suggest—
The countess fanned herself dismissively. “Your figure is elegant.”
“I’m taller than most of the men in that ballroom!” Anne hissed.
“Many men don’t care about that, Anne.”
Anne shook her head. A lifetime of experience had taught her differently. “No man wants a wife who makes him feel unmanly.”
“Well,” her mother said, snapping her fan closed, “you don’t have to marry every insecure fool in that room. You just need one man smart enough to know a thoroughbred when he sees one.”
“A thoroughbred? I’m not a thoroughbred—”
“That is exactly what you are.” Her mother peered at her. “Really, Anne, I don’t understand what happened to you. You were always so confident growing up.”
Anne sighed. It was true. Growing up in the Cotswolds, she had been best friends with the boy next door, Michael Cranfield, and had spent most of her childhood riding hell-for-leather across their fathers’ adjoining lands, climbing trees and having adventures. Anne had been an unrepentant tomboy, and it had never occurred to her to doubt herself.
She sometimes wondered where that confident girl had gone. Perhaps Michael had taken her off with him when he left for Canada. He’d never returned, and Anne hadn’t heard a single word from him in four years.
Of course, as soon as she had arrived in London, she’d realized that the rules were all different here. The qualities she used to prize in herself, the same ones Michael had valued in her as a friend—her courage, her determination, and her sense of adventure—were the worst sorts of liabilities on the Marriage Mart.
So she had adopted a new identity, as the most respectable woman in all of England. It had been necessary to get her charity off the ground, as no one would donate to an organization run by a hoyden. That was what made her rare slip this morning especially galling—she had more on the line than just personal embarrassment. If people stopped donating to the Ladies’ Society because she had lost her temper—
Her mother interrupted her train of thought. “You, my dear, are about to be pleasantly surprised. Besides, you want to find a new husband, do you not?”
“I do.” And that was the rub of it. Anne needed a husband if she was to have children. And Anne wanted children. She wanted them just as much as she wanted the air that filled her lungs.
And Lord Wynters had not given her any.
“You’re dressed to find one tonight,” her mother said, seizing her by the shoulders and steering her across the foyer. “Do look for someone more stimulating this time, dear.”
Anne bristled. “As I mentioned, you were the one who said I needed to marry an earl—”
“I know I did. But you married the wrong earl, darling.”
“Surely the words wrong and earl do not go together. They are inherently nonsensical.”
“Hmmm. Well, I’m sure you’ll do better this time. Now, quit slouching, and for God’s sake, smile,” her mother said, all but shoving her into the ballroom.
Well, there was no helping it. Anne threw her shoulders back and cocked up her chin. Two gleaming marble staircases curved down to the parquet floor below. The Falmouth ballroom, normally sedate in tasteful shades of cream and gold, had been transformed into a lush fantasy for the occasion of the masquerade. Purple velvet flounces draped the balconies overlooking the ballroom below. Wine-red roses overflowed from vases perched on pedestals. The candelabras had been draped with wisps of gold netting. Even the stand where the musicians were setting up had been transformed into a sumptuous grotto. Half the guests had come in full costume—Anne saw Helen of Troy, Oberon, and the usual assortment of nuns and friars—and the other half had simply added a mask to their usual evening finery.
As she reached the bottom of the stairs, a gentleman wearing a green Highland kilt passed in front of her, bearing two glasses of lemonade.
She watched his jaw drop. He swiveled his head so he could continue to gape at her as he crossed the room…
... until he crashed at full speed into a column and went sprawling on his backside.
Oh, dear God. She glanced around and saw people openly gawking at her. Her dress must be even worse than she’d feared. Every instinct demanded that she flee, but… why wasn’t anyone checking on the fallen gentleman? What if he were truly injured? She couldn’t just leave him lying there on the floor.
Tamping down her annoyance, she hurried to his side, relieved to see that his kilt had settled modestly. “Are you all right, sir?”
He stared up at her, looking rather dazed. “That depends upon your answer.”
“My answer? I—I don’t understand.”
She extended her hand to help him up, only to find it firmly seized. The man kissed the back of her gloved hand (actually kissed it—Anne had never been so scandalized in her life!) “Tell me at once—do I stand a chance?”
“I… I don’t know what you mean, sir—”
“I mean,” he said, “that tonight I have seen beauty such as I never dreamed could exist. Say you’ll take pity on me, fair goddess, and grant me the favor of a dance.”
Oh dear, Anne mused. He must have hit his head. “I apologize, sir,” she said, struggling to free her hand, “but I… I don’t even know you, and—”
“Alexander Fitzroy, at your service, Madame. May I know the name of my enchantress?”
A tall man who wore his blond hair in the sort of casually windswept style that probably took an hour to arrange spoke. “She is Lady Wynters. And I would like a dance as well.”
Anne stared at the masked man for a beat, then realized it was the Viscount Scudamore.
Strange. Lord Scudamore was the treasurer of the Royal Military Asylum. They were both actively involved in the charity world, so Anne knew him fairly well. He’d been showing more and more interest in the Ladies’ Society over the past year, and Anne had him on her short list of candidates for a vacant position on her board as vice president.
But he had never asked her to dance before. He was precisely the type of man who never asked her to dance. He was rich; although the estate he had inherited had been mired in debt, Lord Scudamore had worked a miracle, turning it around in three short years. He was also young. Titled. Handsome, even.
Anne blanched, realizing that Lord Scudamore was awaiting her response. “Um, certainly, my lord. And you as well, Mr. Fitzroy,” she added hastily, seeing his woeful expression.
She penciled their names onto her dance card. “You look surprised, my lady,” Lord Scudamore said.
“A bit,” Anne admitted. “You’ve never asked me to dance before.”
“You were never available before,” Lord Scudamore countered.
She was blinking at him in surprise when a man dressed as Sir Walter Raleigh drawled, “We’ve all been waiting for you to come out of mourning.” Anne’s mouth fell open, and chuckles broke out from the cluster of men surrounding her.
That cluster was growing in size and increasing in volume.
“Lady Wynters, would you do me the honor—”
“May I have the pleasure—”
“I would particularly like to request the supper dance—”
Anne quickly surrendered her dance card. She recognized most of the gentlemen in spite of their masks, but not all, and it seemed simpler to let them write their own names.
After penciling in his name, Nathaniel Bartindale smiled. “Just one dance left,” he said, holding the dance card aloft.
A half-dozen arms shot out at once, and three men managed to take hold of it.
Augustus Mapplethorpe gave it a sharp pull. “Come on, you two, give it here.”
“No, you give it here,” William Davison retorted.
“Let go, the both of you,” grunted Baron Gladstone, who was dressed as Julius Caesar.
Gracious, this was the strangest night of her life! None of these men had ever shown her the slightest interest before. But now they were scrapping after her dance card like a pack of starving dogs. Anne took a hasty step back as Mr. Davison’s elbow came within inches of grazing her ribs.
And then, at the top of the stairs, she saw him.
He was difficult to miss, towering as he did over every other person in the room. His black hair had the windswept look that was so popular, a wave falling artfully across his forehead. She could see little of his face, as he wore one of the plain black masks their hosts had been handing out to those who needed one. But she felt a strange certainty that underneath that mask, he would be handsome; surely only an exceptionally handsome man could carry himself with such confidence. She knew that if her sister Caro had seen him, she would have huffed, because he was wearing boots and buckskin trousers, which were fine for riding, but completely inappropriate at a ball. And just as horrifying, even Anne could tell that his coat was several years out of fashion. But gad! That coat looked marvelous on him.
Goodness, Anne never had such thoughts about men. She valued character over appearances. The most important qualities she required in her future husband were that he be kind, meticulously respectable, and supportive of her charity work.
But it was just so hard not to notice a man’s appearance when he had shoulders that were so broad and so... firm. His stomach had none of the paunch most gentlemen had, it was as flat as a board. And those trousers...
Those trousers fit him to perfection.
Oh, gracious, he was headed right this way! Had he noticed her gaping at him? At his trousers? Oh, how mortifying, whatever was she going to do?
Anne had been so distracted by the handsome stranger, she had scarcely been paying attention to her more immediate surroundings, and she saw that the struggle for her dance card raged on. Lord Gladstone jerked his arm suddenly to the right, and Mr. Davison lost his grip. He gave a yelp of surprise and began to topple backwards.
Unfortunately, Anne was standing in exactly the wrong place; Mr. Davison was going to crash into her. She closed her eyes and braced herself for the impact...
... only to feel herself swept off her feet, high into the air.
There was a firm arm behind her shoulders and another under her knees, and she felt her right side pressing against a rock-hard chest. She was suddenly enveloped in the scents of smoky cedarwood and leather, and… something strangely familiar she couldn’t quite place. Just as quickly as he had picked her up, her rescuer swung her around and set her down. Off-balance, she grabbed his arms. They felt like a pair of tree trunks, they were so thick and firm. She jerked her hands away as if she’d been burned, and promptly swayed backwards. He grabbed her around her ribcage, steadying her, and not only were his hands deliciously warm, they were so big they almost encircled her waist.
Anne squeezed her eyes open and found herself staring directly into a cravat.
There was only one gentleman in attendance who was tall enough that Anne would be at eye level with his cravat. She glanced down, and the buckskin trousers confirmed it. Oh, God. It had to be the beautiful, dark-haired man she had been gaping at moments ago.
Heat rose to her cheeks. His hands were still wrapped around her waist. Up close, she saw that he was even more ridiculously gorgeous than she had imagined from across the ballroom. At least, from the neck down he was—she wasn’t at an angle to make out much of his face, to say nothing of the fact that he was wearing a mask. But if a better-proportioned man existed in all of Christendom, she had yet to see him. She suddenly thought of a sketch she had seen of a statue of Hercules. It was really just a headless torso reclining on a pedestal, a barrel chest and rippling stomach covered with ridge upon ridge of thick, bulging muscles, with the barest scrap of linen draped across his hips.
Hercules, that would be the perfect costume for this man.
Anne would quite like to see him in that loincloth.
Oh, gracious heavens—where had that thought come from?
A rich baritone rumbled above her head. “Have a care, Davison. You almost injured her.”
To his credit, Mr. Davison did look horrified. “My deepest apologies, Lady Wynters. I hope you won’t hold it against me, as I was dearly hoping to lead you out—”
“She’s not dancing with you,” the deep voice snarled.
“But I—”
Her mystery man didn’t say a word, but turned to glare at Mr. Davison, who recoiled under the man’s ire as if it were a physical blow.
“I… I… of course not. Please accept my most abject apologies, Lady Wynters.”
“Of course,” she whispered.
The orchestra was starting to tune up. Tristan Bassingthwaighte, dressed as Shakespeare, stepped forward, a smug smile upon his face. “I believe the first dance is mine.”
“You’re mistaken, Bassingthwaighte,” her rescuer growled. “She’s dancing with me.”
“Now see here,” Mr. Bassingthwaighte protested, snatching her crumpled dance card from Lord Gladstone and holding it aloft. “Lady Wynters promised this dance to me. It is my dance, and if you take it, then I will—”
“Then you’ll what?” Her rescuer leaned in, towering over Mr. Bassingthwaighte by almost a full foot. “Are you challenging me? Because if you are, I accept.”
Mr. Bassingthwaighte had turned a peculiar shade of green. He glanced mournfully at Anne, then back toward the tall man. “My apologies, sir. Enjoy your dance.”
“Believe me, I will. Come, Anne.”
Anne? Had he just called her Anne? There wasn’t a single man in London, save her own brothers, whom she had given leave to address her by her first name. She had never been more confused in her whole entire life!
Her partner took her hand and towed her toward the center of the ballroom. Everyone, absolutely everyone, was staring at them. And no wonder—she was wearing the most scandalous dress imaginable, she had almost incited a duel, and now she was being dragged across the ballroom by a perfect stranger, as if she were the spoils of war. She, the most respectable woman in all of London! Well, not anymore, clearly, but still.
She spied her two older brothers standing near the refreshment table and shot them a beseeching look. Help, she whispered. As expected, Harrington was laughing at her. Honestly, she hadn’t expected any differently, Harrington thought everything was a joke. But to her surprise, her eldest brother, Edward, also ignored her entreaty. He was smiling broadly, his dimples flashing, and he raised his glass in salute.
That was strange because Edward was the most honorable man she knew. It was completely unlike him to stand by when any woman was in distress.
Oh, but there was her Mama. Surely she would save her. She shot her mother a desperate look, but the countess wore a smirk that rivaled Harrington’s, and carried on fanning herself in smug satisfaction.
Well, there was no helping it, she was going to have to dance with the man. She took up her place in the set and forced herself to smile.
The music began. Their first turn was unremarkable, but on their second, the man leaned down and whispered in her ear, “You look beautiful tonight, Anne.”
She shivered, actually shivered, as his deep voice rumbled up and down her spine. Goodness, he had called her Anne—again! And she still had no idea who he even was. She felt certain they had never met before.
This man she would have remembered.
And yet clearly, he knew her. She peered up at him, baffled. The mask fit him poorly enough that she couldn’t make out his eyes. But what she could see of his face was every bit as handsome as she had suspected it would be from across the ballroom. He had a strong jaw, freshly shaven but already showing a hint of a dark shadow. His ears stuck out a bit, but somehow it suited him, balancing out the broadness of his shoulders.
He also had the most perfectly shaped lips she had ever seen.
Why did she keep thinking these things, about… lips and loincloths? What was wrong with her?
As they circled each other a third time, the deep voice returned to her ear. “Let’s go somewhere where we can talk.”
“Talk?” she sputtered.
He was already leading her toward the open balcony doors. If there had been any doubt that everyone was staring at her before, they certainly were now! What on earth were they going to talk about? She didn’t even know the man. Oh, this was a disaster, of the most epic proportions.
He led her out onto the deserted balcony. Anne managed to extricate her hand and took up a place at the balustrade overlooking the garden.
She cast about for a topic. “It’s chilly tonight, isn’t it?”
“Funny,” the deep voice replied, “I feel positively warm.”
What on earth did that mean? She was trying to think of a response when the man took her by the shoulders and turned her to face him. “Anne,” he said, laughing, “you don’t recognize me.”
It was true, but she could hardly admit as much. “Of course I... erm... that is to say...”
“I know it’s been four years, but I didn’t think you would have forgotten me entirely,” he said, reaching up to unhook his mask.
Anne froze, her heart suddenly pounding. Four years? There was someone she hadn’t seen in four years. Someone she had missed every single day, so much it hurt. But it couldn’t be...
The mask came off, and she found her gaze riveted to his eyes. Even in the dim torchlight of the balcony, she could see they were a deep, emerald green.
There was only one man in the world who had eyes that green.
“Michael!” she gasped, and without thinking, she threw her arms around his neck.