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HAMPSTEAD HEATH, LONDON, ONE MONTH LATER

J ohnathan Parrish—the celebrated Earl of Melrose, the gentleman the young ladies sighed over, the Nonesuch, the Corinthian, the petted and admired darling of the ton —was two fingers of brandy away from casting up his accounts all over Lady Fosberry’s gleaming ballroom floor.

He couldn’t be certain, not being a man who usually drank to excess, but Johnathan had a vague notion casting up one’s accounts during a cotillion wasn’t the done thing.

The devil of it was, he couldn’t work out how the evening had disintegrated into a drunken debauch.

He and Lord Cross had set out with the intention of going directly to Lady Fosberry’s ball, but one glass of brandy in Cross’s study had led to another, then another, and then somehow, they’d ended up at White’s.

It went a bit hazy after that, but now Lady Fosberry’s ballroom was spinning around Johnathan in a nauseating whirl of gold damask wallpaper.

“We would have done better to avoid this ball altogether, Melrose.”

Johnathan peered at Lord Cross. He didn’t seem to be in the least impaired by the brandy, but then those weaknesses that afflicted mere mortal men—drunkenness, lust, love—never had much effect on him.

Cross was scrutinizing the company with his usual expression—one eyebrow quirked, jaw relaxed, and infinitesimal crinkles at the corners of his eyes. “How in the world do you do that, Cross?”

The eyebrow rose a notch. “Do what?”

Johnathan waved a hand at Cross’s face. “Contrive to look both bored and amused at the same time. I’ve always wondered.”

Cross rolled his eyes. “My advice to you, Melrose, is to quit this ball before your senses quit you. I don’t know what’s come over you this evening, but you’re in no state of mind for a cotillion.”

Johnathan drew himself up with as much dignity as he could muster, given his difficulties with the gold wallpaper. “Are you implying I can’t hold my drink? How dare you, Cross?”

“Did I imply it? I didn’t suppose I’d been that subtle. You’ve dipped too deep tonight, Melrose, and you’re too bloody foxed to take your lady out to the floor. Is that plain enough for you?”

Johnathan grunted. “You’re an unpleasant fellow, Cross. I don’t know why I insisted on having your company this season.”

“I haven’t the faintest idea, but I wish you hadn’t.”

“And she isn’t my lady. She’s a lady, but not mine .” Nor would she ever be, in spite of what the ton might think.

Johnathan followed Lady Christine Dingley’s slender figure as she tripped gracefully through a country dance.

She was wearing a pastel gown of some indeterminate pale purple shade, and appeared perfectly comfortable despite the excruciating heat.

There wasn’t a hint of a flush on those delicate pink cheeks, or a glimmer of dampness on that smooth brow.

In a fit of misguided gallantry, Johnathan had engaged her for a dance this evening when they’d met at Lady Ponsonby’s breakfast yesterday, and it was too late to beg off now.

“Save your dance with Lady Christine for another ball, Melrose.”

“There won’t be any other balls for me. I leave for Kent at the end of this week.

” Johnathan had been wishing himself anywhere but London since his first night at Almack’s, and it had only grown more tiresome since then.

He was eager to leave the city behind, and join his sisters at his country estate.

“If you insist, but I’m warning you, Melrose, you’re sure to make a mess of it.”

“Am I still standing upright, Cross?”

“For the most part. Tell me, how many noses do I have?”

Johnathan squinted at Cross. “One, er…one and a half.”

Cross shrugged. “Eh, close enough.”

“Well, then, let’s get this over with.”

The ton would be highly offended to hear him speak so dismissively of the season’s belle. Johnathan himself was horrified. He was a gentleman, after all.

At least he would be horrified, if he were sober.

It was just that he was so weary.

Weary of the weight of the ton ’s expectations, of balls and routs and breakfasts, and the throng of young ladies in their pastel gowns, with their sharp-eyed mamas scouring every ballroom for stray fortunes and titles.

On his worst days, Johnathan was weary even of being the Earl of Melrose.

It was a wearying business, being Lord Melrose. He’d been Lord Melrose for eleven years now, since he’d turned eighteen, and he was ready to drop with exhaustion.

Being Lord Melrose hadn’t left him time for much else. His wild oats had been left to squirm around inside him, unsown and simmering like a pot on the boil, just waiting for their chance to overflow.

Or perhaps that was the brandy.

But of all the things that wearied him, Lady Christine Dingley was the most wearisome of them all.

Johnathan’s mother had been dear friends with Lady Dingley, and it had been her fondest wish that he would one day marry her daughter. Johnathan hadn’t had any objection when one day was a point in the far distant future, but somehow, when he wasn’t paying attention, one day had become today .

Lady Christine had not improved in the intervening years between their last meeting and the start of this season, and Johnathan liked to think his lovely, kind mother wouldn’t wish to see her only son doomed to a lifetime with an ill-tempered, spoiled belle whose only interests were shopping, gossip, and petty rivalries.

Of course, as far as the ton was concerned, there wasn’t a single thing wrong with Lady Christine.

She was beautiful, accomplished, and her family’s reputation and lineage were both impeccable.

That she was rather like a cricket game—that is, far pleasanter in theory than in practice—did not, in the opinion of the ton , disqualify her from becoming the Countess of Melrose.

It did, however, disqualify her from becoming Johnathan’s wife , which was damned inconvenient, given they were one and the same thing.

He’d already made up his mind to wed this year.

He’d just turned twenty-nine, and Margaret, the eldest of his three younger sisters was now fifteen years of age.

She’d abandoned her pinafores and youthful curls, and soon enough would be embarking on her first season, with her younger sisters right behind her.

He needed a wife.

The devil of it was, marriage had always meant Lady Christine Dingley, or, if not her , then another lady very much like her.

Hence, the brandy.

Just once, he longed for something for himself , something he’d chosen , instead of having it thrust upon him. Something, or someone, that was his alone?—

“If you want this dance, Melrose, you might endeavor to look as if you’re anticipating a cotillion, rather than a trip to the gallows.”

Johnathan shot a resentful look at Cross. “Yes, all right. I’m going.”

“Get on with it, then.” Cross plucked at his wilted cravat. “I’ve never seen such a crush, and it’s as hot as Hades in here.”

“It’s always hotter than Hades in a ballroom, Cross, and every ball is a crush. Must the ton always move in a herd? Aren’t there any other entertainments on offer tonight?”

“Certainly, but none so fashionable as this one, and none with such an enticing hint of scandal about it.”

Johnathan frowned. “Scandal? What scandal?”

“Haven’t you heard, Melrose? Lady Fosberry has dragged one of the Templeton sisters back from the dead.”

“Not from the dead , Cross. Only from Buckinghamshire. Lady Fosberry spends a good deal of time at her country estate there. What, are people still going on about the Templeton girls? It’s not their fault their mother was an adventuress, and ran off to the Continent with the Marquess of Bromley.”

“No, but the mother is dead now, Melrose, and someone must be blamed, or else the ton won’t be satisfied, and so it falls on the daughters. Lady Fosberry and her misfits.” Cross’s mouth turned up in a rare smile.

“Lady Fosberry has always cared more for intrigue than propriety.” The ton flocked to her balls for that very reason. One never knew what might happen at one of Lady Fosberry’s entertainments.

“Quickly, Melrose, before some gallant steals Lady Christine out from under your nose.” Cross nodded toward the other side of the ballroom, where Lord Cudworth, Lady Christine’s last partner had just returned her to her parents. “I refuse to wait through another interminable country dance.”

Johnathan’s lips twisted in a grimace, but he gave the hem of his coat a sharp tug, resisted the urge to twitch the folds of his cravat, and began to make his way across the ballroom.

If he’d had one fewer glasses of brandy, or been a trifle less agitated he might have arrived at his destination, but as it was, he never made it as far as Lady Christine.

Instead, he spied Lady Susanna Exeter, a discreet but delectable widow with whom he’d enjoyed more than one pleasurable encounter. Indeed, if he hadn’t made up his mind to wed this season, he’d still be enjoying her now .

Johnathan glanced from Lady Susanna to Lady Christine, then back again. Once, twice, then again, back and forth, one lady a reminder of a recent, pleasurable past, and the other a thorn in the side of his filial duty.

He took a hesitant step toward Lady Christine, his mother’s wishes regarding his marriage battering at his bruised conscience, but then paused, his gaze wandering back to Lady Susanna.

Surely his mother hadn’t meant for him to be made miserable by his choice? She couldn’t have known her dear friend Lady Dingley would raise such a foolish, frivolous, ungrateful daughter who, despite the ton ’s approval, was as ill-suited to become the Countess of Melrose as a feral cat?

Good Lord, he was in a mood. Hardly the right frame of mind for a cotillion, was it?