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CHAPTER ONE

Nearly four decades of life had taught Arthur Cliffe many things, like how to manage a dukedom and the art of the Intimidating Glare; however, he’d also learned many more useful talents, such as the benefits of a winning and well-timed smile, the proper way to flirt, and how not to form lasting attachments with females while they both satisfied their carnal needs.

He prided himself on the fact that he’d never so much as been rumored to seriously court a woman with the aim of marriage.

Tales of his prowess were legend among the lads at Cambridge and the young bucks of the ton emulated him in mannerisms, speech, and fashion.

He found his life pleasant, carefree, and straightforward, right up until he caught sight of Miss Beatrice Farraway.

He’d been in the company of more than his share of pretty women, confident women, women who dressed ostentatiously to compensate for a lack of looks or personality, flirtatious women, intelligent women, women who pretended to be intelligent, but never had he seen a woman like her before.

Despite the fact that she was dressed as a debutante, she danced and smiled, twirled and laughed like a woman wholly unconcerned by how she presented herself and what others thought of her.

This was, of course, not to say that she was ungainly or uncouth—quite the contrary.

She displayed the least amount of artifice Arthur had ever witnessed in another human being.

Never before had the sight of a woman entranced him so.

Never before had it been impossible to tear his eyes away from a woman.

Never before had his heart thudded at such a concerning pace.

And never before had he wondered to himself if this was what it was like to fall instantly, completely in love with someone.

Beatrice was wholly unaware of the Duke of Foxton’s existence (in as much as a young woman of marriageable age and a determined mama was capable of when a man possessed an ancient title, vast fortune, and lacked a wife).

She knew of him—mostly from titillated whispers of her elder sisters who’d already gone out into the world and made their matches—and had been aware of his presence at each event thus far that Season.

While the stories of the Debauched Duke were amusing and exciting enough to make her blush, they were also good reasons for her to steer clear of the man who had no inclination toward tidying up his ways.

He’d run roughshod over London for decades, charming women out of their stays even before he’d attended University.

People still whispered of how he’d nearly been asked to leave school after being caught with his Latin tutor’s daughter, but a generous donation and the weight of his father’s title stood in the way of that disgrace.

Since then, his behavior had only grown worse. Flaunting mistresses, seducing ladies of the ton , and earning a reputation for his prowess as a lover were all things synonymous with the Duke of Foxton. She, however, was far too busy to seriously concern herself with any of it,

Beatrice was one hour into her third ball of her debut Season and, thus far, it had been everything she’d imagined—even if it hadn’t been, her habitual optimism was enough to make it so.

Her dance partner stepped on her toes? At least her dance card was full and her mother, Viscountess Allenbye, could not accuse her of being a wallflower!

The punch was atrocious? At least she could learn what not to do when she was mistress of her own household!

The room was stifling with too many bodies? She had a good reason to explore balconies and verandas, even nose around some libraries while she caught her breath—how interesting other people’s homes were!

That particular evening, all three of those things happened.

Lady Bart had invited far too many people to her ball with its disgusting punch, and she believed her left foot might just fall off if it was trod upon once more.

Still, Beatrice couldn’t bring herself to be miserable about any of it.

She was out in Society, experiencing London life, wearing beautiful clothing and jewelry. She felt like a princess.

But, if she didn’t find fresh air in the next five minutes, she feared her body might quit.

Her elderly aunt distracted, Beatrice took her first opportunity to sidle nearer to the garden doors. They had been thrown open to emit the jasmine-scented night air, but did little to assuage her intense need for a breeze. Everything inside the ballroom was stagnant.

She was about to slip outside and into the arms of relief when one Sir Reginald Gratton waylaid her with a greeting. She nearly cursed aloud. The young man was pleasant enough and not a chore to look upon, but he was about as welcome as the Plague at that particular moment.

“Miss Beatrice! I was so hoping to see you at this gathering tonight.” He took her hand and bowed over it.

They’d met at the musicale her cousin hosted four days prior and he’d called on her at her home once since then.

Of course, her mother had been thrilled at the interest he’d shown and all but thrust her into his arms.

“Sir Reginald; how pleasant to see you,” she replied, fanning her face almost frantically and glancing between his hopeful eyes and the nearby relief of the outdoors.

He invited her to take a turn about the room, but the thought of diving back into the thick of the party made her nauseous.

“Thank you, no. I was—” She moved to gesture to the doors, but the motion made the world spin as if her head floated above her shoulders. The room tilted at a precarious angle.

Her skin tingled and flushed; the vague impression of deep green eyes and dark golden hair filled her vision just as the world went black.

Arthur managed to catch the young woman just before she crumpled to the floor.

She’d turned in his direction a moment before he saw her pink lips part and her dark eyes widen.

He’d seen enough women swoon in his day to be able to discern a real from a fake, and, judging by her pallor and utter lack of self-preservation as she collapsed, this was no act.

He’d spat a curse and shoved his flute of champagne back at the servant who’d offered it, and dove for the young woman, narrowly preventing her head from striking the polished parquet floor.

“Miss Beatrice!” cried the man to whom she’d been speaking. Arthur noted with more than a little disdain that the man had been within arm’s distance of her and didn’t appear to have moved an inch to assist.

The crowd, which had initially parted in shock, now swarmed closer to peer at them in curiosity. Arthur noted the unnaturally red flush painted atop the young woman’s sickly coloring. She’d overheated.

“Step back,” Arthur roared. Most everyone moved without hesitation. “She needs air,” he announced and easily scooped her into his arms. He was careful that her head was cradled against his chest as he strode to nearby veranda doors.

It was at least fifteen degrees cooler in the night air and he hoped it would assist in reviving the young woman so limp and small in his arms.

“Is there anything I can do?” asked their diminutive hostess, who had rushed over at the commotion. The alarming amount of feathers adorning her head bobbed nervously as she spoke. “Shall we bring her to a retiring room?”

“No,” Arthur snapped with perhaps a bit too much vehemence—now that she was in his arms, he couldn’t imagine relinquishing her care to anyone else.

“Have a cool compress brought.” Lady Bart stepped off to the side to request as much from a servant.

He heard her telling other guests that all would be well—and where was Miss Beatrice Farraway’s mother?

Everything else died away as Arthur held the young woman in his arms. Her curves were soft and slight against his body.

His fingers itched to learn every dip and hollow, but he wasn’t nearly as much of a cad as to take advantage of an unconscious woman.

Her fan dangled from her wrist and, through a careful maneuver, he slipped the accessory free and began fanning her face.

Where was that damned servant with the damned compress?

The fan’s breeze swept the few artfully arranged curls from her face, drawing attention to her high cheekbones, dainty nose, and well-formed lips.

Her long eyelashes fanned out against her pale cheeks like delicate lace.

Her sweet breath came in shallow, thready puffs.

And she smelled divine. So many women doused themselves in cloying, oily perfumes, but this young woman’s scent was…

light and delicate enough for him to almost believe it was her natural fragrance.

He could have buried his face in her throat and never come up for air.

Spotting a bench, he seated himself and settled her across his lap; her head lolled against his shoulder.

“Open your eyes,” he murmured, less demanding than beseeching. His chest constricted painfully when there was no response.

“Here, Your Grace,” murmured a footman, followed closely by Lady Bart.

“Let us remove her to a more private place,” Lady Bart hedged again, clearly uncomfortable with the care and interest Arthur was showing in this unfortunate girl.

Arthur ignored her and, taking the compress, began smoothing the toweling over the girl’s brow, trailing down her cheeks to the fraile column of her throat. Her pulse fluttered beneath his fingers. He marveled at her delicate perfection while he whispered, “Wake up, darling.”

As if they were characters in a fairytale, her eyelids fluttered like butterfly wings, finally revealing to him the most enchanting pair of decadent chocolate irises he’d ever beheld.

“Hello,” he said, almost breathlessly.