Page 1

London, England

L ady Diana Latimer pulled the polished rosewood door open and peered around its edge. The room behind it proved to be the library, and it was deserted. Perfect . Slipping inside, she shut the door behind her and leaned against it, pressing her hand to her heart.

The London Season had scarcely begun, and already she was sick of it.

She had been raised by her Great-Aunt Griselda in an isolated house on the edge of Ilkley Moor.

Growing up, there had been no glittering parties, no routs with a thousand guests crushed into a single mansion.

There had been Diana, her great-aunt, a handful of servants, the pack of brown and white speckled pointers Aunt Griselda raised, and occasionally, when he was able to get away for a visit, her brother, Marcus.

Her friends had been of the imaginary sort.

Such isolation had been necessary. Diana and Marcus’s father had been a violent man.

When Diana was two, he had killed her mother in a fit of rage by pushing her down the stairs.

He had managed to escape punishment thanks to his status as a duke.

Two years later, he returned to the family home and selected Diana as his new target.

That was when Marcus, who was nine years her senior, had managed to remove her to Aunt Griselda’s protection.

But when Marcus inherited their father’s title three years ago, he had brought Diana to London to take up a life befitting the sister of a duke.

In Yorkshire, she had spent her days dressed in plain wool, tramping across the moors with her great-aunt and a pack of dogs.

The only adornment to her gown had been the twelve inches of mud gracing her hem.

They would shoot their own dinner and roast it over an open fire, and on the rare occasions when the English weather cooperated, they would sleep out under the stars.

And now, she found herself here, wearing a gown of delicate white silk and handmade lace that cost more than most men would earn in a lifetime. She had paired it with a necklace of aquamarines—a birthday gift from her brother, chosen because the pale blue stones perfectly matched her eyes.

Diana knew she shouldn’t complain, knew there were scores of young women who owned only one set of clothes and had to struggle to scratch out a living working in the mills or sewing until their fingers bled.

She knew just about every girl in England would give her eyeteeth to be the younger sister of a duke, and the richest heiress in all of England.

But when she passed by a mirror and caught a glimpse of herself, it was always a shock to see a girl in silk and jewels staring back at her.

A part of her still expected to see the shabby wool coat she had worn back in Yorkshire and a streak of mud on her cheek.

She also remembered how lonely she had been before coming to London. How she used to gaze at the empty night sky and issue a silent plea to the Almighty to send her a little company.

She had found it. And she had made some wonderful friends, especially the Astley twins, Lucy and Isabella.

But in retrospect, perhaps she should have been more specific when she was wishing upon a star and asked not just for some company but for some intelligent company.

Hence her need to steal away from the party for a moment of quietude. She found these huge London gatherings exhausting in general, and as the evening wore on, it became increasingly difficult to maintain a cordial veneer while surrounded by her ever-present flock of inane suitors.

Speaking of which… Diana turned back toward the door, pressing her ear against its panels. There were footsteps in the hall, accompanied by voices.

Male voices.

Someone was coming.

With skill born out of practice, Diana hurried across the library on tiptoes, identifying the perfect hiding place as she went. She deftly slipped behind the poppy-colored taffeta curtain just as the door swung open.

“Not in here, either,” a man with a high, petulant voice said. “Where is she hiding?”

Behind the curtain, Diana frowned, wondering who their quarry might be.

“Come on,” a different male voice, this one slow and dull, answered. “I’m sick of tramping through every room in this bloody house.” She heard the soft slide of a drawer opening, followed by the muffled clatter of someone sifting through it.

“Look what we have here!” the second voice said. “Let’s sit a minute and take advantage of Lord Richford’s hospitality.”

There were footsteps followed by the scrape of a chair against the hardwood floor. The pungent smell of cheroots confirmed the identity of the item they had discovered in Lord Richford’s desk drawer.

“There,” the second man said. “That’s better. So, why does it have to be her, anyway?”

“I told you. I need an heiress.”

Diana rolled her eyes. These two sounded like some of her suitors. Which was to say, insipid.

“Well, what’s wrong with that friend of hers?” the second man asked. “She’s just as pretty.”

“Do you mean Lady Lucy?” the first man asked.

That got Diana’s attention. Because she knew a Lady Lucy—Lucy Astley, her particular friend.

She reminded herself that there were three hundred people in attendance at this party, and it was likely that several bore the address Lady Lucy . It could easily be a coincidence.

“That’s the one!” the second man agreed.

“She’s rich, but she’s not rich enough.”

His friend chuckled. “Not rich enough? She has thirty-five thousand bloody pounds.” Diana’s heart started to race because that happened to be Lucy’s exact dowry. Her father, Lord Cheltenham, was a wealthy earl, and there were vanishingly few young ladies in possession of a comparable fortune.

And if even Lucy was not rich enough , there was only one heiress in London capable of meeting this cretin’s requirements.

Her .

“I told you,” the first man growled, “I had a bad day at Boodle’s.”

His friend laughed incredulously. “I didn’t realize it was that bad of a day.”

Boodle’s was the club where men went when they wanted to play deep. Something niggled in the back of Diana’s mind. There had been a rumor about someone losing a terrific sum at the tables last week.

“I had a few bad days, all right?”

Hearing his voice, the man’s name came to her in a flash—Joseph Cumberworth, fourth son of Baron Cumberworth. That would make his oafish friend Berkeley Blachford.

“I still say you should set your sights on Lady Lucy. I mean, what about…? You know. Her arm ?” Blachford asked in a tone of voice that suggested he was wrinkling his nose.

Now, Diana knew without a shred of doubt that she and Lucy were the heiresses in question. She had been born without a right hand, and her right forearm was about half the length of its companion on her left.

“I don’t give a damn about her arm,” Cumberworth replied. “The real problem is that she’s such a bitch.”

It was fortunate that Diana had so much practice in hiding, which included staying perfectly still and silent, no matter how shocking the things she overheard might be.

It was the one thing she could thank her father for.

Because of him, she had spent countless hours standing behind a curtain or huddled on a shelf in a wardrobe during his drunken rages.

And so, she managed to hold her breath and not flinch when Cumberworth uttered the worst insult that could be used against a woman.

Cumberworth was still speaking. “At least things will be different once we’re married. A man has the right to discipline his wife, after all.”

Blachford didn’t sound convinced. “But what about that brother of hers? He’s a damned good fencer. And he seems like the type who wouldn’t hesitate to run you through.”

This might be the most intelligent thing Berkeley Blachford had ever said. Diana didn’t have a shred of doubt that Marcus would kill any man who raised a hand against her.

Of course, Blachford was overlooking a few pertinent facts.

Diana was every bit as talented at fencing as her brother; she could skewer Cumberworth like a dish of Veal à la Dauphiné herself.

To say nothing of the fact that Marcus would never allow a blackguard such as Joseph Cumberworth to marry her in the first place.

Cumberworth sounded unconcerned. “You have to be careful in how you do it. The trick is to avoid the arms, face, and any other place where someone might see a bruise.”

“But won’t she just tell him?” Blachford asked, sounding even more confused than usual.

“Not if she’s sufficiently frightened,” Cumberworth said confidently. “It’s crucial that you terrorize your wife completely.”

“ Oh .” Blachford paused, as if giving this great thought. “I’ll have to remember that.”

There was a creak of leather as if Cumberworth were lounging back in one of the wing chairs before the fire. “It will be tiresome keeping her in line. But for a hundred thousand pounds, it’ll be worth it.”

Blachford warmed to this theme, and he and Cumberworth continued discussing how offensively opinionated she was.

Diana listened with only half an ear. She was busy plotting her revenge.

Eventually, she would tell Marcus, who wielded his social influence every bit as deftly as he wielded his sword.

Overnight, Cumberworth would find himself cast out from all good society.

Invitations would cease to be issued, and his former friends would cut him in the street.

But first, Diana wanted to toy with him. Perhaps she would grant him a dance in order to give him false hope. She would then proceed to forget his name. He would be Mr. Cumberland, then Mr. Cumberbatch, and then Mr. Cummerbund.

She would not stammer out an awkward apology when he pointed out her error. She was going to look him dead in the eye as she addressed him as Mr. Cumbersome , to better emphasize that his name was simply not worth remembering.

She was wondering if she could get away with calling him Mr. Cucumber when Cumberworth and Blachford’s guffaws were interrupted by a new voice.

“Correct me if I’m wrong, but I believe you’re speaking of Lady Diana Latimer, are you not?”

Every hair on the back of her neck stood up. Because she knew that voice.

It had been three years since she’d heard it, because he’d been away fighting with his regiment.

But that insouciant drawl belonged to her friends Lucy and Isabella’s older brother, Harrington Astley. She was sure of it.

Behind the curtain, she scarcely dared to breathe.

Because she liked Harrington Astley. Three years ago, she had arrived in London at the end of the Season, meaning that she’d only had a handful of conversations with him before the time had come to return to her brother’s country house in Cornwall.

By the time the following Season had started, he had left London to join his regiment.

But those few conversations had been excellent ones. She remembered him as being handsome, charming, and wickedly funny.

A lump rose in her throat. Thanks to her arm, she was quite used to people whispering about her behind her back.

She had thick skin because otherwise, she would not have survived.

Cumberworth and Blachford had earned her ire by speaking about her in such disrespectful terms. But she was not broken up about it.

Yet she found that if Harrington Astley were to agree, were to join in their mockery, that would wound her in a way few men had the capacity to do.

She held her breath as Cumberworth confirmed that she had identified his voice correctly. “What the devil are you doing here, Astley?”