Chapter One

Seventeen Years Later

Typically, he wasn’t overly concerned about his appearance. But this evening wasn’t typical.

Was the scarlet waistcoat too much? Too…over the top?

Should he settle for the very staid, very traditional black?

His valet fit his black coat over his shoulders and brushed it clear of lint. Oliver McCaron, the Earl of Armbruster, thought about asking his valet, Richard, his opinion on the color of the waistcoat and decided to hell with it. He’d wear the red and damn anyone who thought he was too gauche.

It wasn’t as if he were attending a formal ball. It was just a salon filled with bohemians and others on the fringe of Society. They were hardly worthy enough to look down at his attire.

Except those weren’t the people he was concerned about.

“Concerned, my ass,” he muttered.

“Pardon, my lord?” Richard paused in his endless brushing.

“Nothing,” Oliver said. “I’m ready to depart.”

Richard put his brush down. “Very good, my lord. Your carriage is waiting.”

Oliver was in a contemplative mood on the way to the salon. He’d been at odds for the past few weeks.

Bored. Restless.

His friend, Jacob Baker, the Earl of Ashland, was usually able to divert Oliver’s moods, but Ashland was newly married and had undergone a great ordeal when he was almost killed by a man who had murdered at least five women.

It had been a horrendous time, and Oliver did not begrudge his friend the moments he wanted to take with his wife, but Oliver missed his weekly meetings with Ashland.

And maybe, he might be a tad jealous that Ashland had someone to go home to every night.

Oliver’s carriage pulled up to the Fieldhurst home, and Oliver took a moment to gather his thoughts before exiting. This sort of hesitation wasn’t like him. He tackled all his problems head on, but he was suddenly stricken with the memories of the last time he had been here.

It had been for the wedding of Lady Fieldhurst. A grand affair it had been, too. She’d looked elegant and oh, so beautiful. The groom had been twenty years her senior but had stared at his bride with love and longing.

He should not have gone. He knew that now, and he’d known it at the time. His pain had been fresh, raw. But he’d had to see for himself that she was truly going to wed a man twice her age. Afterward, he’d gone to his club and gotten so pissed that his father had to retrieve him. His father had never asked why, when Oliver had never been drunk like that before or after, and Oliver had been relieved to not have to say.

The footman waited patiently for Oliver to exit, and the carriages behind him were no doubt wondering what was taking him so long. Reluctantly, he hopped down and straightened his jacket.

Maybe scarlet had not been a good choice for the waistcoat.

There was no announcement as he walked in. This was not a formal ball, but an informal salon where people who normally did not mingle, mingled. There were few of his mates here. Those whom he spent time with were not impressed with the artsy nature of such a gathering.

Truth be told, he wasn’t quite certain what went on at these events. He was here on a special request from his friend, Detective O’Leary, from Scotland Yard, because he was the one person in Society that O’Leary knew. If he’d known he was walking into the lion’s den of Lady Fieldhurst, he would have passed on the offer.

Or would he have?

He saw her long before she saw him. She was standing with a strange group of people, fops, rogues, and women of dubious reputations, her raven hair curled and draped over one creamy shoulder. Ironically, she was wearing red as well. More of a burgundy, but red nonetheless.

He circled the edge of the room, keeping his eye on her as he snagged a glass of wine from a passing servant. He’d been told there would be a poetry reading later. He was not looking forward to that. Poetry was not his thing. Theater was good, and he enjoyed a good orchestra. But he’d never understood poetry.

Ellen loved it.

He remembered that. He remembered a lot. Too much, maybe.

He found his prey after about fifteen minutes of searching and leaned a shoulder against a white pillar to study him from afar. He was a twitchy little man. Short in stature, with a most horrendous mustache, heavy brows, and beetle-like eyes. Or maybe the unfavorable description was Oliver projecting his dislike on the man. He did seem the nervous sort, though. Looking around as if he trusted no one in the room.

Oliver wondered what Ellen saw in the man to invite him to her home. Did she know he was a Chartist? A threat to the Crown?

Oliver grimaced. Damn Chartists were causing all sorts of problems for Queen Victoria. Normally, Oliver didn’t get involved in politics, and never had he done any work for the Crown. He could say that he wasn’t working for the Crown right now.

Oliver had acquiesced because…well, he wasn’t certain why he’d agreed. Boredom, most likely. He wanted something interesting in his life. Socializing, gambling, drinking—all of his favorite pastimes—were wearing thin and, truth be told, after watching Ashland fall in love, Oliver had felt a twitch of something in the region of his heart.

He sipped his wine and watched the man. He was speaking with his hands. Grand gestures that almost knocked a tray from a passing servant and he didn’t even notice. His captivated audience seemed more like a captured audience. Not too keen to be with him, but not knowing how to disengage themselves.

For their sakes, Oliver hoped the poetry reading—another grimace—started soon.

“Lord Armbruster.”

Oliver was in the process of taking another sip of wine when his arm froze halfway to his mouth. Every muscle in his body clenched, and he had a very strange impulse to not turn around, not face her. To walk away. The hurt, the shame, the anger, all came crashing back, but he was good at shoving those unwanted emotions away and ignoring them.

He forced a smile on his lips and turned to her.

“Lady Fieldhurst.”

Seventeen years ago she had been beautiful, all lovely curves and wide eyes and luscious lips. Now she was stunning. She’d filled out in the years, her hips more rounded, her waist still impossibly small even after giving birth to the current earl. There was not a hint of gray in her hair, but there were tiny laugh lines at the corners of her eyes that only added to her beauty.

“I’m surprised to see you here.” Her voice was musical. Deep and rich with a slight rasp that stirred his loins. He looked at Ellen, and he immediately thought of bedding her. It was an ungentlemanly thought and one he tried to banish, but it persisted nonetheless.

It had always been this way with her. She stirred him in ways that no other woman had since, and he had definitely tried hard to erase her memory with other women.

“Are you?” he asked. “Surprised?”

She smiled, a slow seductive smile that made all the blood rush to his cock. “Shocked might be a better word. You’ve never attended any of my salons before.”

He shrugged, almost forgetting that he was holding a glass of wine. It sloshed. He steadied it. “I wanted to see what it was all about.”

She tilted her head and studied him. “You despise poetry.”

Why was he so inordinately pleased that she remembered that about him?

“I’m a changed man.”

Her smile slipped. “I hope not.”

…

Why are you here? Ellen desperately wanted to ask Oliver, but she refrained from being rude.

When she’d seen him enter, her blood had run cold. For all these years they’d had an unspoken agreement to steer clear of each other. If they happened to be at the same ball, they remained on opposite ends of the room. They hadn’t spoken since…

She pushed the memory away.

Why was he here now?

“The poetry reading will start momentarily. You might want to head in to get a good seat.”

He barely disguised his grimace. She did not disguise her grin. So, he still hated poetry. She was right. He had not changed, and that comforted her.

He tilted his tawny head toward a man a few feet away. “Who is that?”

“Antoine Bertrand?” she asked in surprise. He was here to see Bertrand? There was a curious feeling in her chest that was absolutely not disappointment.

“Bertrand,” he repeated, as if memorizing the name.

“Do you know him?”

He seemed to shake himself and turned back to her with a slight grin. “Never met him. He seems passionate about whatever it is he’s discussing. His audience is captive. And not in a good way.”

She studied Bertrand. She didn’t know the man well, but he was a part of the eccentric crowd that Ellen was drawn to.

“That’s unkind,” she said. “They don’t seem too miserable.”

He made a noise in his throat, and she was suddenly irritated with him. “Why are you here, Oliver?” This wasn’t his crowd of people. In fact, the idea of Oliver socializing with any of these people was laughable.

He turned the full force of his intense blue eyes on her, and she wished she’d not asked. She wished she’d walked away. She wished she’d not approached him at all. Those eyes had been the subject of her dreams for years before she’d finally forced herself to stop thinking of him.

“How have you been, Ellen?”

She set her back teeth together in frustration. Lord Armbruster was a charismatic man. He drew people to him like bees to flowers, and she did not want to be another bee. Not again.

Never again.

“I should mingle. Enjoy the poetry.”

She caught another grimace before she walked off and felt a small thrill that he wasn’t happy about the poetry reading.

…

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