One

London, 1810

He wasn’t supposed to be nervous. He was supposed to be confident and self-assured, to soothe his bride’s frayed nerves.

But Colin had never done this before.

He paced his bed chamber and glanced at the bracket clock. The hour grew late. If he waited much longer, Lady Daphne would think he didn’t want her.

He did want her.

He didn’t really know her, but he found her attractive enough. Still, just because she had stunning blue eyes and long, silvery blond hair didn’t mean he wanted to take all of his clothes off and go to bed with her. He didn’t so much mind the part where she took off her clothes...

Except that seemed an awkward thing too.

Was he expected to make some comment on her body? Was he supposed to be overcome by passion at the sight of her naked flesh? How was he to know what the right thing to say might be? When he lay beside her, was he supposed to whisper words of love? He didn’t love her. He knew almost nothing about her. And he was not a man given to strong emotions. He didn’t want to be overcome by passion or tortured by love. His schoolmates had always called him The Poet, but that was because he had dark, curly hair and a perpetually brooding expression. He wasn’t very good with words.

And he was an absolute failure when it came to emotions.

The clock chimed midnight, and Colin knew he could not wait any longer. Trying not to think too much about what he should or shouldn’t do, he opened his bed chamber door and crossed the corridor to tap on his wife’s door. The sound was muffled, but in the silent house, it seemed to echo like a pistol shot. Her family, all tucked away in their beds, had probably heard the quiet knock and known exactly what it meant. He wished he had thought to suggest they spend their first night together at a hotel. He wished he had his own residence, but it seemed an unnecessary expense when he was leaving in a fortnight to join his regiment in the army.

Still he was nervous enough without having to do the deed under the Duke of Warcliffe’s roof. Colin would have to sit across from his father-in-law at breakfast in the morning. The duke would chat about the weather or some such thing, while both of them thought about how Colin had deflowered the duke’s youngest daughter the night before.

“Come in!” Lady Daphne’s voice was not nearly as quiet as he might have hoped. But she was not a quiet woman. He supposed that when one was the youngest of nine children, one had to fight not to be ignored. Lady Daphne certainly made sure no one ignored her.

Colin opened the door and poked his head in. “I hope I am not disturbing you.” She was seated in bed, the pillows behind her propping her up so that her blond hair streamed down her shoulders and over the white linen of her nightclothes. He’d never seen her without her hair piled high and embellished with curls and feathers and jeweled pins. She looked smaller with her hair loose and brushed into soft waves. Her face looked pale, her plump lips starkly red in contrast. A lamp burned on the table beside the bed, and she placed the book she’d been reading near it.

“I’ve been waiting for you,” she said. Her eyes, so blue under dark brows and lashes, met his gaze without hesitation.

Of course, she had. He should not have made her wait.

“I apologize.” He closed the door and stood awkwardly in front of it. Did he start undressing now or did he undress her first? Or perhaps he just lifted her skirts and did it that way. That would save both of them the embarrassment of removing clothing. She pushed the coverlet aside and slid out of bed. Colin couldn’t help but follow the flash of ankle he saw and then her bare feet as she padded across the carpet to a bottle of wine on the dresser. She had such small, white feet.

“Do you want a glass of wine?” she asked, holding a bottle out to him.

He nodded. He wanted this over, but if she wanted wine, he wouldn’t deny her. She poured two glasses and crossed to him. Her night rail was not flimsy, but it was not exactly meant to hide her body. A row of bows lined the front from neck to knee, and there was a gap of about two inches between each, giving him tantalizing glimpses of bare skin. Of course, her nightclothes would have bows. Everything she wore was covered in copious bows. But while those were mainly for show, these seemed functional. If he pulled at the corners of one, the nightrail would open.

Colin drank half his wine.

“I thought we might talk for a while,” she said, looking up at him uncertainly. She was nervous as well. He really should say something like, you have nothing to worry about or I won’t hurt you. But what if he did hurt her? He looked down at her. He wished she were a bit taller and not quite so delicate-looking. Her breasts pushed at the bow containing them, and his mouth went dry.

“If you like,” he said, sipping more wine. His glass was almost empty.

“We don’t know each other very well,” she said, stating the obvious. “But I’m certain our mothers would not have wanted us to marry if they hadn’t thought we would make a good match.”

Colin didn’t necessarily agree with that statement. The Duchess of Warcliffe and Viscountess FitzRoy had been friends since girlhood. They always said they were as close as sisters. Colin suspected they wanted their youngest children to marry because it would formally connect the two families, although no one in the families—save the viscountess and the duchess—wanted to be connected. The Warcliffes were loud and proud and given to much entertaining. The FitzRoys were quiet, restrained, and given to much reading. Colin didn’t want to contradict his wife of barely sixteen hours, especially not right before he deflowered her, so he gave her a noncommittal nod.

“What do you like to do?” she asked him.

They’d had a handful of conversations, and this was a repeat of one of them, so Colin knew the answer. “I read and go to the theater. You?”

“Oh, I like to go to balls...”

And dance, he thought.

“...and dance,” she said. “Do you ever go to balls?”

“Rarely. Do you like horses?”

She wrinkled her nose. Well, that was enough chatter for him. He gestured to the bed. “Perhaps we should get on with the, er, wedding night.”

She looked at the bed and swallowed. “I had hoped we would come to know each other a bit better...before. You might tell me your deepest, darkest secret, and then I could tell you mine.”

Colin narrowed his eyes at her. She was barely eighteen and had been under the watchful eye of her older brothers and parents since she’d first been placed in her crib. He rather doubted she had any deep, dark secrets. And if she did, what was he supposed to do or say if she told him about them? His own secrets were just that—nothing he wanted to tell her or anyone else for that matter.

A few years before he had fancied himself in love with the older sister of one of his fellows at Eton. He’d written her a poem expressing his sentiments and slipped it to her clandestinely. She’d handed it back to him the next day, patted his cheek, and said he was a silly little boy.

He would not be made a fool of again.

“It’s been a long day,” he said. “I think we are both tired. Perhaps we can save the conversation until tomorrow.

“Oh.” She set her glass down and smoothed her nightgown. “Very well. I’ve not done this before. What should I do?”

Now might be the time to confess he had not done this either. They could figure it out together. They could laugh together at mistakes or sigh together with pleasure. But Colin was not good at confessions. He’d made them before and been properly ridiculed.

“Lie on the bed,” he said.

She walked to the bed as though going to her execution. While she climbed under the covers, he sat on the edge and removed his shoes then his coat and cravat. Finally, he pulled his shirt out of his trousers and turned to face her. She was watching him with those big, blue eyes, even her lips pale now. Colin decided this might be easier if he turned out the lamp.

He lowered the flame until the light sputtered and died, and the two of them became but shadows in the dim light from the hearth. Then he climbed into bed beside her. He fumbled a bit, looking for the hem of her nightclothes. Colin might only have a vague idea of what to do, but his cock was ready. The mere suggestion of touching a woman was enough to excite that appendage.

He found her hem and began to push the garment up.

“Aren’t you going to kiss me first?” she asked.

He stilled. She was right. He was supposed to kiss her. He’d kissed women before—well, girls really. He’d been given the odd day off at Eton or Oxford and had gone into the village to have a pint with the other lads. There was usually a pretty girl about, and he’d kissed a few. Even in Oxford there were ladies willing to do more than kiss. He hadn’t sought them out because he’d agreed with his father when he’d sat Colin down and said, “Human beings are not commodities to buy and sell. No FitzRoy would ever condone that sort of thing, much less be part of it.” His father had been speaking of the slave trade, but Colin knew his father’s directive included fallen women as well.

Daphne was trembling. It was a slight movement, which he imagined she tried to hide, but with his body so close to hers, he could feel her quaking. Perhaps kissing her would relax them both. “You’re right. I should kiss you.” His eyes were adjusting to the dark, and he found her face easily and cupped it. He balanced himself above her and dipped his mouth to hers. Her mouth tasted slightly of peppermint as he brushed his lips over hers. Her lips were soft and plump, the sort of lips made for kissing. He tasted them, suckled them, plundered them. Her arms came around his neck then and she sighed in pleasure. He teased her mouth open and dipped his tongue inside, tasting more peppermint on her tongue. She tensed again, but he coaxed and charmed until she opened to him and even slid her tongue against his.

This was the part of the kiss where he usually had to stop. Sometimes he could manage to sneak a quick touch of a breast, and he moved his hand now, down her shoulder and over the swell of her flesh. She tensed again, and he tried to think of what he should say to relax her, but his palm brushed over her nipple, hard against the thin linen. He couldn’t really think with his hand on her like this. He cupped her breast gently, and it more than filled his hand.

She was still trembling, so he kissed her again. But she didn’t respond as she had before. His cock strained against his trousers and he longed to free it, but she was so stiff now. “Should I stop?” he asked, breathless.

“No. It’s nice. It’s just all so new, all these feelings.”

No. Not feelings. He did not want her to start talking about feelings. He kissed her again, and she returned the kiss. Her body even arched slightly, pressing against his. That was all the encouragement he needed. He loosed the placket of his trousers, freeing his cock. Drawn to the heat of her body, he pushed her nightrail up and settled between her legs. She was so warm. He touched her curls and she jumped.

“Sorry,” she said.

“It will only hurt for a moment.” That’s what he’d heard anyway. He had no idea if it was true. She nodded, looking up at him with worry creasing her forehead.

He entered her, his cock seeming to have a mind of its own. She was tight, and he had to push to enter. Stars danced before his eyes as pleasure began to build. He moved deeper inside her and heard her gasp of pain. He tried to stop, but the orgasm was on him. One more thrust. He tried to be gentle. He felt his seed spill into her, felt the barest hint of a climax, and then he was looking down at her and feeling completely unfulfilled.

Her face was tensed, her eyes closed and her lips flat. He pulled out, and she opened her eyes and looked at him. “Is that it?” she asked.

He knew she didn’t mean it as an insult. He’d given her no pleasure whatsoever. He’d barely had any himself. He would have enjoyed it more if he’d used his own hand. What had he done wrong?

Colin tucked his cock back into his trousers then looked at the wetness on his hand.

Blood.

“That’s it,” he said. “Are you hurt?”

“It wasn’t so bad.”

Again, he knew she didn’t mean to insult him, but it was difficult not to feel some shame at how poorly he’d performed.

“I’ll leave you to your, er, ablutions,” he said, rising from the bed.

She pulled her nightrail down and sat. “You’re leaving?”

“I wouldn’t want to impose on your privacy. Good night, Lady Daphne.”

She stared at him. “Good night, Mr. FitzRoy.”

He opened her door and crossed the corridor again. When he was back in his room, he slumped against the wall. The clock read twenty past twelve. The whole interlude had taken less than twenty minutes, and the act itself about thirty seconds. He’d hurt her with his clumsiness. He would never forget the way her face looked, scrunched with pain.

Well, he had done his duty. He needn’t do it again. His mother, God rest her soul, might not be proud of him, but he’d done as she’d wanted. He’d be on the Continent fighting the French in a month. He’d probably be killed, and he imagined Daphne would be glad to marry again. This time she could marry a man who could give her what she needed—a man who knew how to do more than kiss, a man whose throat didn’t lock up every time anyone asked him something more personal than the state of the weather.

If he died, it would be better for everyone.

***

SEVEN YEARS LATER

Lady Daphne was in trouble. Again. Trouble seemed to follow her like a hungry puppy, and she could not resist feeding it. Except this puppy had grown into a savage beast and wanted to bite off her arm.

“I see your friend the Earl of Battersea is here,” Lady Pavenley said, her gaze directed across the crowded ballroom. Her tone was one of mild indifference, but Daphne knew she was gloating. She’d already seen the earl, and it had taken all of her willpower not to turn and flee. He hadn’t seen her yet. She hoped. How many events had she left early in the past few weeks in order to avoid him? She’d stopped counting.

“I do hope he asks someone besides Lady Daphne to dance,” Lady Isabella said. “I find the silver at his temples quite dashing.”

Daphne found everything about the earl more disturbing than dashing. Of course, she’d thought him dashing at one time too. That had been her mistake. Now she just wished he would leave her alone.

The three ladies stood in a circle at the end of the ballroom. Daphne imagined they looked like a trio of flowers. She wore her signature pink, Lady Pavenley wore violet, and Lady Isabella wore yellow. Daphne was under no illusion that either of her friends—if someone who would just as soon stick a knife in your back as pass you the salt could be called a friend—had any concern for her. Like the rest of the ton they were here to watch the show. And that show’s fifth and final act would only satisfy if someone was scandalized. No doubt Daphne’s companions hoped it would be Daphne.

“I have no interest in dancing with him,” Daphne said, hoping she sounded airy and unconcerned. In reality, she was scanning the ballroom, looking for the nearest exit.

“Well, not all of us are married to war heroes,” Lady Isabella observed. Her own husband was in his mid-forties with bushy eyebrows and hair that poked out of his ears. Like Daphne, she had married a man of lower rank. Lady Isabella was the daughter of a marquess and her husband was only the heir to a lowly baron.

Lady Pavenley tittered. “Yes, Mr. FitzRoy is quite dashing. He dashes about here and dashes about there. He is forever dashing about.” Noting the absence of Daphne’s husband was a favorite pastime for Lady Pavenley, who was married to the Earl of Pavenley. He was a notorious drunk who rarely attended a ball without vomiting on the floor or pissing in a corner.

Daphne observed, not for the first time, that the three of them should have been friends. Society liked to call them the Three Suns, ostensibly because the earth revolved around them, but also because they were all considered beauties who outshone other ladies. Daphne was the most conventionally beautiful, being blond and blue-eyed. But though her hair was pale, she had naturally rosy lips and dark brows and lashes. Added to that she had her grandmother’s aristocratic cheekbones, her mother’s lush figure, and her father’s strong straight nose. More than one man stopped and stared when she passed.

Lady Pavenley had dark hair, almost blue black, and deep violet eyes. She was tall and regal and quite voluptuous. Lady Isabella had chestnut hair with tones of red in it that Daphne was never quite sure were actually natural. She had large breasts that always looked like they might spill out of her low-cut gowns. They had done so on more than one occasion, and the result had been poets who wrote sonnets to her ruddy nipples and pale orbs.

But the three were not friends, though they put on a show for the eyes of Society. In reality, they were enemies who had called a truce because if they’d gone to war they would have ruined each other so thoroughly that only a few scraps of hair and a bit of lace would have remained.

Instead, they ruined or elevated others. One nod from the Three Suns toward a debutante and the girl was sure to be a success. One cross word about her dress and she would have to leave Town in disgrace.

Daphne had no thirst for blood. It wasn’t until after a Season or two that she realized the power her favor or censure held. She’d ruined a girl’s chances at a good match completely by accident. If she’d been in a foul mood and frowned in the direction of an unmarried young lady, the ton would follow suit.

These days Daphne tried not to smile or frown at any unmarried ladies, but the other two suns were not so kind. They relished their power and status. Lately, Daphne had grown rather tired of the ton and the endless social engagements. She wanted something more than mind-numbing chatter and endless gossip.

“Where is dear Mr. FitzRoy tonight?” Lady Isabella asked. It was the question one or the other of them asked every time they were together. Surely they knew she had no idea, but it was undoubtedly interesting to see how she would justify his absence over and over again. His absence was humiliating, and the other Suns made sure to humiliate her as often as they could.

Daphne knew FitzRoy was back from the war. She’d heard he was living with his sisters and father in the country. But lately he’d been seen in London, so he must have a residence here. As a woman, she couldn’t very well search him out.

And he hadn’t bothered to search for her, though she was not difficult to find.

Unless she wanted to admit she hadn’t seen her own husband in seven years, Lady Daphne had little choice but to play along with the Suns’ game. “You know him,” she said, though of course none of them knew Colin FitzRoy. “He has important work to do.”

“What sort of work?” Lady Pavenley asked with a sneer.

“War hero work,” Daphne said, then added, “He mentioned deciphering a document. It’s top secret, of course. He cannot even tell me what the coded missive contains.”

The two ladies looked interested, despite themselves. Daphne knew they didn’t want to believe her, but they were not quite sure if some of what she said could be true. One day she’d be exposed for the liar she was and publicly humiliated.

That night was not tonight.

Unless the Earl of Battersea found her. He was making his way across the ballroom now, and this was her last chance to escape. “I think I shall find the ladies’ retiring room,” she said, turning to go.

“I’ll go with you,” Lady Isabella said.

Not wanting to be left alone, Lady Pavenley also moved. “I shall go too.”

There was safety in numbers, but it was temporary. She had to escape the ball, and she couldn’t do it with the Suns circling her. Walking ahead a bit, she spotted the young son of a peer. He looked as though he’d been scrubbed and shaved within an inch of his life. The still soft flesh of his jaw was ruddy from the razor yet. As she passed him, she grasped his arm and whispered, “Lady Isabella wants to dance with you. Go and ask her.”

The lad’s eyes widened, but he didn’t waste any time stepping before Isabella and bowing almost into her bosom, effectively detaining her. That tactic would not work with Lady Pavenley. She was too tall and imposing to be approached by a man who didn’t know her. Instead, Daphne scooted past a woman about her own mother’s age. She nodded in greeting then said, “Lady Pavenley is looking for Lord Pavenley. Could you help her?” The matron’s nostrils flared with interest, like a hound scenting prey. And she arrowed straight for Lady Pavenley while Daphne slipped out of the ballroom.

Once free of the ballroom, she looked left then right. She couldn’t very well walk out the front door. People were still arriving, and she would be seen. It might be a half hour before her carriage could be found, and by that time Battersea would find her. That meant she would need to go out the back, past the mews. Once on the street she could hail a hackney and go home. She’d send one of her father’s footmen to tell the coachman to return to the duke’s town house.

Most of the town houses in London were quite similar in layout, and it did not take her long to find the servants’ back door and exit along a dark path. At the end of it, she saw a gate and, on the other side, the row of mews. Thank God. She was free of Battersea and free of all the whispers and speculation about her absent husband. She started along the path, careful of her footing as it was dark. Too late she saw the man step out before her. He was large and dark, a cloak obscuring his body and a hat pulled low on his forehead.

She gasped and stumbled backward, almost losing her balance. Was he a thief? A murderer?

“Lady Daphne,” he said.

The use of her name did little to quell her fear. “How do you know my name?” It couldn’t be Battersea. She’d just seen him inside.

“How do you not know mine?” He lifted his head and removed his hat, bowing to her in a sort of mocking way. It might have been dark, but she knew those features.

“FitzRoy,” she whispered.

He arched a brow at her. “Let’s find somewhere we can talk, wife.”