PROLOGUE—1822

Delaney McFarland raced to her bedchamber. The soles of her half boots slid on the carpet as she reached for the bell pull. Her father was going to kill her, dire errand or not.

“Late for your own debut?” her sister asked from the doorway, as if it weren’t completely obvious. Yet even laced with censure and false surprise, Bree’s voice managed to sound lyrical, adding to her list of innumerable charms. “Father will not be pleased.”

“You think so? All this time I thought he enjoyed being ridiculed by his peers.” Delaney yanked off her walking gloves with such force that she nearly toppled a pair of figurines on her side table. She reached out to secure them.

Just then, the dour-faced Miss Pursglove emerged from the hall like a wraith bent on reaping indecorum instead of souls. Then again, perhaps souls as well. “As I mentioned before you went out”—her austere gaze dipped pointedly to the table—“haste will only lead to further disaster, Miss McFarland.”

Delaney’s grip on the dainty porcelain lamb tightened. Squaring her shoulders, she faced her wretched decorum instructor. The impulse to hurl the figurine at the woman’s head was so potent she could taste it. However, since she didn’t have time to deal with the inevitable shards and resulting shrieks, she carefully set it back down.

“That is where you have it wrong, Miss Pursglove. Haste aids those who possess the resolve to accomplish many tasks at once,” Delaney said as she deftly unbuttoned her spencer and shrugged out of it. “Whereas I find that those who waste time lurking in doorways with their lips pursed in disapproval rarely accomplish anything of merit with their lives.”

Seeing those dark eyes narrow in indignation, Delaney felt triumphant. Unfortunately, the feeling was all too fleeting. For in the next moment, when she tugged off her hat and tossed it onto the bed, her sister’s gasp filled the chamber.

“Your hair!” Bree’s hands flew to her mouth and then to her own golden tresses, as if to make sure they were still in order. And of course, they were. Nothing was ever out of place on her sister. Her golden locks were perfectly coiffed without a strand out of place, her creamy complexion unmarked by freckles, her eyes an acceptable shade of China blue. “It looks like . . . like a flaming owl’s nest.”

Automatically, Delaney’s gaze shifted to the mirror above her vanity table. In the gilded oval, she saw what the damp weather and all her rushing around had done to her mane of curly, bright auburn hair. She fought back a shudder, not wanting to reveal how much the sight shocked even her.

“Tut-tut, Miss Bree. A true lady must censor her thoughts. Do not allow a bad example to taint your own actions. A purse of the lips is usually enough to show disapproval or even . . . pity.” Miss Pursglove sniffed and turned to leave. “Now, it is time to allow your sister to apply her resolve to the monumental task before her.”

Without another word, Bree followed Miss Pursglove out of the room. In the same moment, the maid rushed in and let out an eek of surprise before she managed to collect herself.

Delaney sagged onto the stool and stared at the assortment of brushes and combs on the vanity and then back at her reflection. “Pull the bell once more, Tillie. We’re going to need reinforcements.”

Three maids, four brushes, and one olive-oil-and-lavender hair tonic later, Delaney stood at the top of the stairs.

“Where in the blazes is she?”

She fought the urge to roll her eyes at the sound of her father’s bellow. It wasn’t her fault that she’d had an emergency errand to run or that her hair refused to cooperate. Again.

“I’m here, Father,” she said as she descended slowly, hoping to make a grand entrance. If nothing else came of her debut this evening, her impeccable sense of style would surely be buzzing on everyone’s lips.

Trimmed in silver thread, her white gown was an airy confection with a rounded train that trailed a single step behind her—two steps would have been ostentatious, after all. The silk draped perfectly to conceal the generous curve of her hips. An extra flounce added to her bodice gave the appearance that she did, in fact, have a bosom. Or very nearly did. Her sleeves puffed just enough to accentuate the line of her shoulders and throat, where the sun hadn’t caused a single freckle. And at her neck, she wore the amethyst pendant her mother had given her, knowing it would draw attention to her eyes, which she’d been told were her best feature.

Gil McFarland turned away from the maid Delaney had sent ahead of her and spared a glance up the staircase. Only a glance. Beneath wiry auburn brows, his wintry blue gaze barely acknowledged his daughter. In fact, if it hadn’t been for the quick frown amidst his hard-set features, she wouldn’t have known he’d seen her at all. Clearing his throat, he looked down to the open watch in his hand before closing it with a succinct click.

The maid jumped at the sound and quickly scurried through a side door.

Yes, Delaney admitted to herself, I’m late. I’m always late. Therefore, it should be no surprise. In the very least, he should expect it by now. It seemed that the harder she tried to be on time, the tardier she became.

“You look rather dashing, Father,” she said, hoping to earn another glance and perhaps a similar compliment. Regardless, it was true. For a man nearing a half-century old, he wore his blue coat remarkably well. In addition, his snowy white cravat complemented the silver streaks in his hair and gave his usually ruddy complexion a healthy glow. Of course, that could have more to do with his rising temper than the cravat.

“Even at your own debut, you manage to be the last to arrive,” he growled, proffering his elbow. When she didn’t instantly slip her hand atop his forearm, he snapped his fingers with impatience. “The most eligible gentlemen will all be spoken for by the time you make your entrance.”

She blew out a breath, trying not to let her disappointment turn into irritation and then from there into anger. Like her father, her temper was quick to ignite.

“If that is true, then they could hardly be eligible in the first place. Either that, or they are recklessly impulsive and would not do for your son-in-law,” she added with the convincing smile of serenity she’d learned to perfect when in his presence. “We both know how little you tolerate spontaneity.”

His teeth ground together, but he held his expression in check. “There was no reason for you to rush out this afternoon, especially when you know how long it takes you to dress.”

“Haversham’s sent the wrong order, Father. What was I to do, stare at a packet of Corinthian blue thread and two silver needles—which obviously weren’t mine—while my Belgian lace was lost forever? Clearly, you know nothing about the importance of lace.” She’d given up hope that he ever would.

“Besides,” she continued, “I made three new friends because of the mix-up, and we’ve decided to form a needlework circle. We’re going to meet twice a week. Also, I’ve invited them all to my debut this evening as well.”

“A needlework circle?” That earned her a look at least, albeit one of speculation. “Tell me, do your new friends know you’ve never spent ten minutes sitting in a chair, let alone plying a needle for any amount of time?”

She didn’t answer, and instead turned her gaze to the liveried footmen standing guard at the wide ballroom doors. Her failures as a daughter as well as a young woman were a constant topic between her father and Miss Pursglove—the same woman who’d recommended that Delaney hold off her debut for two years until she was more palatable to society.

Now, at twenty, she was hardly the age of a debutante. Yet according to her father, her sizable dowry would make any true gentleman overlook her advanced years, in addition to any of the perceived wrinkles in her character that Miss Pursglove had not managed to iron out.

Seeing herself through her father’s eyes, Delaney resembled an expensive gown, adorned with jewels but two years out of fashion and horrendously crumpled.

And as such, she would remain. Because no matter how many times Miss Pursglove tried to cram her into the mold of society, Delaney remained true to herself.

Yet when the ballroom doors opened a moment later, it felt as if every one of her flaws was on display. Beneath the gleam of the chandeliers, her confidence wavered.

In the seconds she stood with her father on the landing overlooking her guests, six recalcitrant curls snaked free of their combs. It was entirely possible that she was beginning to look like Medusa. Her hips felt as if they were expanding by the second. Not only that, but she came to the conclusion that one more flounce would have made all the difference.

More than half of the faces looking her way were complete strangers. The frenzy in her stomach was an admonishment for being late. If she’d been on time, she would have met them all, one by one, as they’d arrived. Even though she rarely gave into mawkishness, she really wished her mother were here instead of tending to her sickly aunt and cousins in the colonies.

Delaney drew in a breath. In her mind’s eye, she pictured a flame burning brightly inside her as a source of determination. The warmth of it spread through her veins, bolstering her confidence.

If nothing else, her father’s fortune guaranteed a grand debut. That alone would earn her a few marriage proposals by the end of the Season. No matter what she might wish otherwise, she was under no delusion that her appeal was greater than her dowry. Even a premier beauty like her mother had gained a husband who’d only wanted her fortune. Delaney could not hope for more. Or should not, rather.

The next hour was a blur of introductions. All in all, she received verbal invitations to eight dinners, five balls, three opera performances, and a standing invitation for walks in the park—the last of which came from her trio of new friends.

Of all the invitations, the final one from Penelope, Emma, and Merribeth had felt the most sincere to Delaney. They greeted her with genuine smiles and even laughed at how they’d met mere hours ago. And what were the chances that they would all happen to live on Danbury Lane and share an interest in needlework?

Well . . . at least the three of them shared an interest in needlework. However, since friends had not always been easy to come by—and keep—Delaney vowed to put every ounce of effort she possessed into finding an interest in needlework.

Too soon, her father moved her away from her new friends. It was time to greet her mother’s cousin and her eldest daughter, who’d had her own debut a week ago. Neither Edwina nor Elena Mallory possessed the bright golden beauty of Delaney’s mother’s side of the family. They were dark featured with narrow noses that appeared pinched, as if they’d caught a whiff of spoiled milk. Of course, Delaney knew she was being uncharitable, but the truth was, her cousins had earned her censure over the years. She didn’t dare let down her guard with these two.

Elena stepped forward and looped her arm through Delaney’s. “Come,” she said as she urged Delaney to one of the settees lining the outer rim of the ballroom. “I will give you the perfect excuse to rest for a moment.”

But Delaney didn’t need to rest. In fact, she always had too much energy to expend. “I really should stay with my father until we’ve greeted all the guests.”

“Nonsense. We’ll only take a moment.” Elena reached toward a mahogany wine table for a crystal cup of pale lemon punch with a single raspberry floating on top. “Here. You must be thirsty after so many introductions.”

“Thank you.” She was thirsty. Between the chandeliers and the dozens of bodies in a single space, the room was rather warm. She took a grateful swallow, draining nearly half the cup. Then she puckered. This punch was far too sour. The tartness lingered unpleasantly on the back of her tongue.

Her cousin leaned forward and took the cup, placing it onto the table for her. “I imagine it’s especially difficult for you.”

Delaney heard the sly inflection in her tone but tried to pretend otherwise. “Oh?”

“With so much of society here because of your father’s fortune,” Elena clarified, as if not wanting to veil the insult. “Then again, that is the way of things with your side of the family. All the men marry for money. It would be impossible for you to tell a genuine friend from an enemy or if a man were interested in you or in your dowry. But I’m sure you’ve already fretted over it, since you’ve had those additional years before your debut.”

“How kind of you to point that out, cousin.” Delaney tried to smile but found that the sourness on the back of her tongue had traveled downward and seized her stomach in a terrible grip. It was like the time her mother had made her wear a corset.

It took her a moment to realize it wasn’t a flare of temper that was making her feel this way. Obviously, the nervous frenzy in her stomach didn’t agree with the tart punch.

“Of course,” Elena said, all sincerity. “I couldn’t sleep at night if I didn’t offer a kindly meant warning. You should know what to expect. I hate to say this, but there are true wasps amongst the ton. They’d just as soon smile at you as sting you in the back.”

Another terrible grip seized Delaney’s stomach. Damp perspiration caused a wave of heat over her scalp and down her nape. She looked to the doors, frantic for a waft of cool air, but they were closed.

Rising unsteadily, she gripped the back of a nearby chair. “Your candor is much appreciated.”

“Cousin, are you unwell? With your unfortunate coloring, it’s so difficult to tell.” Elena rose from the settee, her head tilted to the side, more in observation than concern. “Truly, you look quite ill.”

“Ill?” her father said, clearly displeased, as he joined them. “What’s this about?”

“It must be nerves,” Edwina Mallory offered, sidling up beside her daughter. “Every debutante has them, no matter her age.”

Her father’s frown deepened. “You’ve picked a damnable time to suffer your first case of nerves.”

“I believe it was the—” punch . . . she almost said, but at the mere thought of the sour concoction, her stomach seized again. “I need air.”

Delaney must have looked truly alarming, because her father ushered her toward the doors without another word. He grasped her arm just above her elbow and steered her through the crowd.

At the far side of the room, they paused as a gentleman came forth and opened the doors. “If I may be of assistance, sir.”

Delaney didn’t bother to look at him to determine if he was one of those she’d been introduced to or not. She continued forward, out into the brisk evening air, and gripped the marble balustrade that overlooked their small garden. A shiver rushed over her as the early spring breeze collided with the fine sheen of perspiration covering her skin.

“And you are?” she heard her father ask the gentleman who’d followed them onto the terrace.

Another spasm gripped her, this one climbing up her throat.

“Griffin Croft, sir. My apologies. My father would have liked to have made the introduction, but he was unable to attend.”

“Croft,” Gil McFarland said, apparently oblivious to his daughter’s desire for solitude. “Your father is Marlbrook’s heir.”

“Yes, sir,” Mr. Croft replied, his tone cooling by degree. “Though to me, he’s much more than a gateway to an earldom. If you’ll excuse me.”

Delaney had never heard anyone speak to her father in such a clipped, censorious manner. Certainly, behind his back he’d likely had his share of rivals and disapprovers, though never to his face. Gil McFarland wasn’t solely a man with a great fortune but a temper as well.

Curious about the man who dared to tempt the famed McFarland wrath, she released her grip of the railing and turned in time to see Mr. Croft bow stiffly before he started to leave.

“You have not met my daughter, young man.” Though her father’s voice was gruff, surprisingly there was no anger behind it.

Mr. Croft hesitated but not long enough to offend, just enough to spark another flame of interest on Delaney’s part. She watched as he stiffened his broad shoulders as if wrestling between honor and duty. Obviously, someone in his family had wanted him to attend the party, so he must be in need of a bride—and a wealthy one at that.

The man who believed himself more than just the son of Marlbrook’s heir turned back around, his arms stiff by his side. His gaze went from her father to her, and again he bowed.

“Mr. Croft,” her father said, not bothering to conceal the satisfied grin he wore. “It is my pleasure to introduce you to my eldest daughter, Gillian Delaney McFarland.”

This was the first time her father had used her full name during an introduction. Normally, he preferred not to be reminded that such a creature was named after him. Yet at the moment, she didn’t bother to question it. She was too distracted by the man across from her.

Griffin Croft stood an inch taller than her father, with waves of dark hair brushed back from his forehead. In this light, she couldn’t tell if his hair was black or brown, or if his eyes were brown or blue; all she knew was that when their gazes met, she felt a strange crackling sensation beneath her palms. It felt the way she imagined a fire consumed bits of tinder—hot, bright, and skittering over the surface, igniting kindling with dozens of tiny flames.

And like a flame, her gaze became greedy, consuming every nuance of his face, from his elegantly sloped nose to his wide mouth, and from the deep cleft in his chin to the square jaw and the barest shadow of stubble she saw above a clumsily tied cravat.

“Miss McFarland.”

She didn’t hear him at first. There was an odd ringing in her ears. But by looking at his mouth—and a very pleasant one, it was—she could see that he’d spoken.

Miss McFarland . . . and with those words, his lips pressed together twice. Like a kiss. The idea made her dizzy.

“Mr. Croft.”

A wave of heat assailed her. Then, too soon, another terrible grip seized her stomach. Her vision blurred for an instant, and when she looked down, she saw that he held out his gloved hand, as if to steady her.

Her father’s hand went to her back. “Perhaps it would be best to postpone—”

He never had a chance to finish.

And she never had the chance to turn around and take hold of the railing. Instead, her body betrayed her most cruelly and cast up her accounts all over Griffin Croft’s shoes.