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W hat the devil are you doing here, Astley ?

It was the very question Harrington had been asking himself.

But then, they’d learned that Napoleon had crushed the Austrian and Russian armies at Austerlitz.

Their Russian allies had promptly retreated home to lick their wounds.

Meanwhile, it turned out Prussia had betrayed them all weeks ago, signing a secret treaty with France.

The prize Napoleon had dangled before the Prussians was, of course, the electorate belonging to his enemy, the King of England—Hanover.

With no allies left standing but the Swedes, they’d had no choice but to flee back to the North Sea with the French dogging their heels. Harrington’s regiment had been tasked with performing a rearguard duty, an exhausting combination of obstructing their pursuers and fleeing for their lives.

His men had done a damn good job of it, if he said so himself. There had been vanishingly few casualties during the long retreat. Then they’d packed themselves onto ships and fled back to England. The exercise had been utterly pointless, but at least it had not resulted in a great loss of life.

And then last week, some bigwig over at Horse Guards had requested he come up to London to receive a special assignment, so here he was, at this fancy party.

It was disorienting to be here, sipping champagne and dancing a cotillion, when mere weeks ago, he’d been covered in mud and had bullets whizzing past his head.

But his family had been overjoyed to see him.

That part had been nice. He’d spent most of the evening in the billiards room with his brother, Edward, and his friends Henry Greville and Peter Ferguson.

Henry was a father now, if you could countenance it.

He was married to Harrington’s sister, Caro, who’d given birth to a baby girl late last year.

They’d named her Georgiana after Caro and Harrington’s mother.

He’d been heading back to the billiards room after a trip to the necessary when he heard voices coming from Lord Richford’s library. He’d naturally stopped to eavesdrop, and that was when he heard it.

“I still say you should set your sights on Lady Lucy. I mean, what about…? You know. Her arm ?”

That got Harrington’s attention, first, because his sister happened to be a Lady Lucy, and precisely the sort of young lady men set their sights on—sweet, pretty, and rich.

It took a few seconds for the rest of the sentence to sink in. Lucy’s particular friend, Lady Diana Latimer, had been born missing a hand.

Lucy and Diana were surely the pair of young ladies under discussion.

Quietly, he stole up to the door, pressing his ear against a wooden panel.

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

What the devil ? First off, that wasn’t the sort of thing one said about a lady.

But it wasn’t even right. Diana Latimer wasn’t a bitch. To be sure, she didn’t suffer fools, and it was more than apparent that these were a couple of clowns. If they’d fared poorly with Lady Diana, Harrington was fairly certain it was their own damn fault.

The first man spoke again. “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.”

He wasn’t wrong. Lady Diana’s older brother, Marcus, the Duke of Trevissick, was very much the running-you-through sort, and he was fiercely overprotective where his little sister was concerned.

He also happened to hate Harrington with a rare fervor, although that was neither here nor there. Considering how many schoolboy pranks Harrington had pulled on the duke during their days at Eton, it was a wonder he hadn’t been run through by Marcus Latimer years ago.

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

“But won’t she just tell him?” his companion asked.

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

Harrington gave the sort of laugh that was both soundless and humorless. It was going to go extremely poorly for this wastrel once Trevissick found out about this. And Harrington meant to tell him. He wasn’t about to sweep this under the rug. He quite liked Lady Diana.

‘Quite like her?’ Horseshit.

All right, in the interest of honesty, he more-than-liked Lady Diana. She was witty. Acerbic. Bloody gorgeous.

And deliciously strict in a way that made his pulse quicken.

But it was entirely out of the question. She couldn’t marry without her brother’s permission, and Harrington was the absolute last person on the face of this earth that Marcus Latimer would choose as the bridegroom for his precious, perfect sister.

Although the truth was, her dragon of a brother wasn’t really the problem.

What would Diana Latimer want with the likes of him ?

He was the family disgrace. He’d been paddled every single day during his time as a student at Eton.

It had become a point of pride; once at suppertime during his final year, he’d realized that he had somehow gone all day without incurring the ire of Headmaster Davies.

He’d promptly stood up on the table and launched into a rousing performance of “The Christening of Little Joey,” and he meant the third verse, the one about all the things a fellow could do with his tongue to please his lady love.

It had been sufficient to keep his streak going.

And those were just the things everyone knew about.

Imagine if people knew about his worst flaw, the one he took such pains to conceal from the world.

Only his closest friend, Henry, had managed to guess, but that just went to show what a decent sort of chap Henry was.

Bless his soul, he hadn’t breathed a word.

He did not delude himself into thinking that the rest of his loved ones would be as forgiving if they were ever to learn what a degenerate he really was.

He had only recently found something he was good for in life, and that was being cannon fodder for the British Army.

The point was, just because Lady Diana had laughed at a couple of his jokes a few years ago, it didn’t mean he was remotely worthy of her.

For Christ’s sake, in addition to her many perfections, she was the richest heiress in all of Britain, possibly all of Europe!

She could have literally any man she wanted.

It was worse than hopeless.

The first idiot was speaking again. “It will be tiresome keeping her in line. But for a hundred thousand pounds, it’ll be worth it.”

Keeping her in line . What a blithering idiot. Why would you even want to keep her in line? The way she had of looking down her nose at you like you were an absolute toad was one of his favorite things about her.

The two arse-heads were still blathering on about how awful she was, and what a chore it would be to marry her.

Fucking shicers. It made his blood boil to hear it, but he knew what he ought to do was find a spot where he could watch the door.

When the two idiots emerged from the library, he’d learn who they were.

Then, he could march down the corridor, find Diana’s brother, and tell him what he’d heard. Trevissick would handle it from there.

Of course, Harrington would help her brother if he wanted him to.

Which he most certainly would not.

That would be the right thing to do. Lie low. Make a plan.

But Harrington had never done the right thing in his life. So instead, he laid his hand upon the doorknob and strode into the library.

Two wide-eyed men turned to face him. Joseph fucking Cumberworth, and Berkeley bloody Blachford.

He might have guessed.

He gave them a winning smile. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but I believe you’re speaking of Lady Diana Latimer, are you not?”

Cumberworth gave him a baleful look. “Astley, what the devil are you doing here?”

“Eavesdropping,” Harrington answered cheerfully. Spying a decanter in the corner, he strolled into the room and poured himself a brandy. “So, you mean to marry Lady Diana?”

Cumberworth’s eyes remained flinty, but he gave a curt nod. “Not that it’s any of your affair. But yes. Yes, I do.”

Harrington gave a low whistle. “That’s an ambitious plan.”

“Ambitious?” Cumberworth’s eyes tightened. “Are you implying that I am not good enough for Lady Diana?”

“Oh, no. Not at all.” Harrington paused for dramatic effect. “After all, why wouldn’t the most eligible young lady in all of England want to marry a pox-riddled little bitch who’s up to his ears in gambling debt?”

Cumberworth’s cheeks reddened. “How dare you!”

Harrington raised a hand, ticking off the points against Cumberworth. “No gainful employment or income of any sort.”

The redness had spread to Cumberworth’s ears. “Shut it, you… you…”

“A fucking brute who’s planning on beating his wife.”

“This is none of your affair!” Cumberworth snapped.

“And all the physical attractions of a syphilitic potato,” Harrington concluded.

“I ought to call you out!” Cumberworth roared.

Harrington smiled, unperturbed. He was, after all, a deuced good shot.

With his smart mouth, he had to be.

“I should be delighted,” he said warmly. “I choose pistols. Shall we say tomorrow at dawn?”

Cumberworth was now performing the remarkable trick of being red with rage and a sickly shade of green at the same time. “Now, hang on a minute. I said I ought to call you out. Not that I was calling you out.”

Harrington ticked another finger. “Cowardly, as well. What an absolute prince. It’s a wonder the ladies don’t fall into a swoon.”

Cumberworth was back to scowling. “Well, it’s not as if she’s going to marry you, either.”

Harrington laughed. “Certainly not. Lady Diana is far too good for the likes of me, to say nothing of the fact that her brother despises me.”

Blachford, who had been watching their exchange in open-mouthed silence, spoke. “I say, Astley—if you don’t want her for yourself, what do you care if Cumberworth wants to court her?”

“Because he just said he was going to beat her. And it happens that I like Lady Diana. She’s clever, she’s funny, she’s nice?—”

“Nice?” Cumberworth laughed incredulously. “She’s a bitch .”

Harrington raised his eyebrows. “She doesn’t suffer fools, so if she doesn’t suffer you, the implications are painfully obvious.

And she’s good friends with my sisters. So, if you’d like it to be pistols at dawn after all, just go ahead and call her that one more time.

” He gave Cumberworth a grin, not what you would call a nice grin, but judging by the way the man’s shoulders slumped, Harrington figured it conveyed his message well enough.

Cumberworth rose. “I believe I’ve had enough of this charming conversation. Come, Blachford.”

Harrington grabbed his upper arm. “Lord knows I won’t miss your company. But let’s make one thing clear before you go. You’re going to stay the hell away from Lady Diana, and my sister, Lucy, too.”

Cumberworth tried to shake him off without success. “Or else you’ll tell her brother what I said, I suppose?”

“Oh, I’m going to tell Trevissick what you said as soon as I leave this room. I would leave town if I were you. If you think I’m a right cunt when I’m angry, wait until you see him.”

Only now did Cumberworth seem to grasp the magnitude of his mistake. “Look, Astley, there must be some arrangement we can make. If I can get Lady Diana to the altar, I’ll be a very wealthy man.”

Harrington laughed. He was in the army, and he wasn’t planning on resigning his commission. It was the only useful thing he’d managed to do in his twenty-nine years.

The men of the Rifle Brigade prided themselves on being the first ones in and the last ones out of every battle.

Their casualty rate reflected this fact.

Not that he was even considering Cumberworth’s dishonorable offer.

But really, what use did he have for the man’s money?

He’d likely be dead in a year, maybe two.

“Go to hell,” Harrington replied.

Cumberworth’s eyes were poisonous as he strode toward the door. “You’ll regret this.”

“I doubt it,” Harrington said just before the door clicked shut.