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Prologue

London, England

Spring 1829

Andrew Barrett, the Viscount Waters, was suffocating.

But then, polite events hosted by respectable members of the peerage had that effect on him.

He despised betrothal balls.

In fairness, he detested allpoliteaffairs.

That was why, at that particular moment, during this particular betrothal ball, he found himself in the Viscount Wessex’s gardens, avoiding the crush of respectable guests, who’d all gathered to celebrate the upcoming nuptials of the viscount and viscountess’s daughter, Miss Marcia Gray, in what would be the match of the Season.

One of theton’s diamonds would wed an illustrious marquess with one of the oldest titles in England, a proper fellow with a commitment to his title and deep pockets. Because of that prestige and those deep pockets, he was the catch of the Season.

That’s what all thetonwas saying.

And frankly, as long as they weren’t saying anything about Andrew, he should have been satisfied.

Oddly, however, a restlessness had driven him from the ballroom to the viscount and viscountess’ gardens.

With a bottle of champagne in one hand, Andrew loosened his cravat with the other as he walked the length of the graveled path.

He stopped beside the watering fountain and took a long drink.

“You know, it is rude to go sneaking about someone’s home and stealing their spirits.”

Those words filtered from below, and a memory slipped in of the first time she’d put that charge to him. Back when she’d been a young girl, and he’d been a pup still at university, playing at adult.

Andrew glanced down at the earthen floor.

His gaze collided with a familiar stare, in a very unusual place. Those large eyes belonging to an even more familiar person. His connection to her cemented by his brother-in-law’s close friendship with her father.

“Marcia Gray,” he murmured.

As if it were the most natural thing in the world for a respectable young lady—the focus of the night’s gathering—Marcia inclined her head and greeted him. “Andrew.”

She scooched herself out from under the stone bench, grunting as she did so, until she sat before him on the ground and glared up at him. “If you were a gentleman, you’d offer me a hand.”

“No one would accuse me of being a gentleman,” he said, and raising the bottle to his mouth, he took a long drink.

“No, that much is true,” she conceded, studying that decanter.

Following the direction of her stare, he held it out.

The lines of disapproval at the corners of her narrow mouth dipped farther as her frown deepened. “It reallyisbad form to take your host’s spirits.”

Andrew propped a foot on the stone bench, and resting an elbow on his knee, he leaned down. “And tell me, is it in good form to go sneaking off and hiding during one’s betrothal ball?”

Just then, the thick clouds parted overhead, allowing the glow of the full moon’s light to illuminate her face and reveal the deep red blush blazing across her cheeks.

“I’m not… hiding.”

“Avoiding your betrothed on the night your match is formally announced hardly seems promising,” he drawled. He started to add another teasing comment about her not being at the side of her future bridegroom… but stopped.

The glimmer in her eyes, troubled and sad, reached him.