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SUTTON MANOR, LONDON - NOVEMBER 25, 1813

TOM

The ceremony hadn’t been beautiful. Nor was the wedding breakfast any sort of improvement. No, the best that could be said was that it was expensive.

My new sister recited her vows with barely restrained tears, a tensile note in her voice. I could not blame her for the reaction, not with the twisted set of my brother’s mouth when he had deigned to glance her way—Hugh really could be an arse when he put his mind to it.

With the utter failure of Hugh’s marital prospects, my mother’s gaze had turned toward me. I was barely eight and ten—hardly in society at all—but she’d already thrust three frippery-covered misses in my direction that morning. Every single one had been as indistinguishable as the last.

The one presently seeking my favor had light hair with an oversized bow in it. Every time her head bobbed—which was often as she seemed determined to agree with everything I said—it flapped about despondently. Surely, it was intended to match the bow on her dress, but that had been severely starched and sat stiff like two peaks directly atop her ample bosom—which was almost certainly the intended effect.

The lady and I had already exhausted the readily available topics, the ceremony and weather. And no person of any taste could admire the decorations the Dowager Duchess of Sutton had chosen on the occasion of her niece’s wedding.

“Your—um—your dress is very fine, Miss Kensington.” It was a safe enough topic; ladies liked compliments and I knew little enough about her to compliment anything else.

“Thank you, Mr. Grayson. My maid said it suited my coloring, but I wasn’t certain.” Her voice could not possibly be that high-pitched naturally. Could it?

“Yes, it looks lovely with your—eyes.”

Her eyes had been the wrong choice. Her head tilted to the side in puzzlement and her brow dipped low. “It does?”

“Yes…” Christ, I hated speaking to ladies. And why was my cravat so tight?

“My dress is orange. My eyes are blue.”

“Yes…” Damn, I wouldn’t have guessed orange on the dress.

It had taken years to recognize that my eyes worked—or rather, didn’t work—differently from other people’s. And even longer before I understood precisely how. Where everyone else perceived distinctive colors, I saw shades of what I now knew as brown. I could identify the tone, and there were a few colors I was better at guessing than others. But I could never be sure.

“You have unusual tastes, Mr. Grayson. If you’ll excuse me, my mother is in need of me.”

I bowed, resisting the accompanying eye roll. She was probably envisioning our future home—entirely too garish to abide.

This wasn’t my first fumble with a lady, and I suspected it wouldn’t be the last. I couldn’t lament my failure and I wouldn’t miss her companionship.

My condition hadn’t become a serious concern yet, nor was my utter inability to converse with eligible misses. I certainly hadn’t found one I had any interest in actually impressing. But at some point, it might prove an impediment.

Mother had thrown a fair few ladies in my direction after Hugh announced that he, in her words “meant to honor his fraudulently brought about engagement to the deceitful, scheming strumpet.” So she needed “a daughter who wouldn’t shame the entire family.”

It stood to reason, with the sheer volume of options Mother was shoving in front of me, that at least one would catch my eye. Thus far, such a lady had proved elusive.

Each of the ladies had been perfectly pretty in a rather bland sort of way. Their gowns were fine, decorated with laces and ribbons and baubles. They were tiny, delicate, fragile things with even temperaments and banal conversation. Topics were restricted to the recent weather, the present weather, the upcoming weather, recent balls, present balls, upcoming balls. The encounters were a slow, Sisyphean kind of torture.

I ducked behind a potted plant to extend my reprieve. Mother was in the center of the tulle-covered hell, too busy feigning a preening delight for all the guests to be occupied with matchmaking. She smiled and thanked as though she had not but two hours ago begged Hugh to leave the new Lady Grayson at the altar.

Her present efforts were impressive. If I hadn’t caught each and every glower at the bride, I would have thought her pleased with the match.

She wasn’t though. No, it seemed that our hostess, the Dowager Duchess of Sutton, was the only one pleased with this turn of events. The marriage was a fair victory to crow over. She’d secured a viscount for her unfortunate miss of a niece.

A bony hand grasped my elbow and yanked me forward. Somehow, I’d missed Mother’s distinctive scent of lilacs and decay, and she’d found time in her schedule between artificial gratitude and seething, viscous glowers to return to her matchmaking.

“His Grace, the Duke of Rosehill,” she hissed as she dragged me along. “He has an unwed sister and a widowed former sister-in-law under his charge. You met them once—last year.”

“Mother…” It was a half-hearted protest. I’d learned long ago to choose my battles with her, and making nice with a duke’s sister for a few moments or chatting with a lonely widow wasn’t worth the argument.

She pulled me along, claws digging into the wool of my coat until she paused in front of?—

Oh .

Dimly, under the rushing in my ears, I heard Mother prattling. “—Lady Grayson. Your mother introduced us at her annual ball a few years ago. It is a tragedy she stopped hosting.”

The gentleman was clearly distracted. He offered Mother a brief glance before his gaze flicked back to the crowd. But he was… beautiful .

Dark hair swept off his wide forehead. Matching thick brows topped equally dark eyes. His skin was pale, and his jaw hinted at the ease with which he could grow a beard. He was shorter than me, shorter than Hugh, too, and stocky. But the cut of his crisp black-and-white waistcoat hinted at a muscled form beneath. Nothing about him was delicate; his expression, his appearance, his grooming, his apparel—it was all severe, sparing, and breathtaking.

This . This was what all the stories talked about. The swirling, fluttering, tightening of my chest, the dampness blooming on my palms, the way the air had thickened to a soupy consistency that made breathing difficult. Somehow, when I inhaled, the air was still fleeting, insubstantial. There was too much of it in the room and not enough in my lungs.

“She’s still—” he started. His voice was a musical tenor. And his hand gestured between us in a moment, flicking to one side before clenching in a fist at his waist. The gesture was enough to ensure I noticed sturdy, strong fingers beneath a white glove. “She is still mourning my father,” he finished, his lips twisted all the way to one corner of his mouth by the end.

“Oh, and once again, please pass along my deepest condolences. I lost my dear Henry some years ago, but the grief is as sharp as it ever was,” Mother simpered.

“I will. I’m certain she will be grateful.” His gaze flicked about the room, still distracted.

“Your Grace, may I have the pleasure of introducing my youngest son, Thomas Grayson?” Mother followed the request with a proper curtsy, deeper than I thought her capable.

She then excused herself, slipping off with a significant look tossed back to me.

I was supposed to do… something. But what was anyone’s guess. Because with Mother away, the air filled with an overwhelming, masculine, cedar scent. It shoved useful thoughts clean from my head.

“Pleasure,” he murmured in my direction, still glancing uneasily around the room.

“The honor is all mine,” I replied automatically with a bow.

His silence settled like a wall between us. Several gulps of his woody scent left me painfully aware that I was gaping like a dolt, but I was still too overcome for intelligent conversation.

“It was a lovely ceremony,” I added, trying again. The comment was inane and entirely false. I’d never seen two people less enthused with the prospect of wedded bliss.

“Yes, quite,” he returned as his attention shifted back to me. “Remind me again of your relation to the bride?”

I blinked, head aflutter. “She is my sister. Of but a few hours.”

“Oh, right. Yes, of course. So… you are not familiar with the layout of the house then?” he asked, gaze returning to the crowd.

I was fully gaping now. “Not any more so than anyone else. Are you looking for something, Your Grace?”

His gaze finally found mine and caught there for a minute. His eyes were so dark, I was absolutely certain they were brown—near black—and not some other color I only assumed was brown. For reasons I couldn’t name, it was essential to me that I know what color they were, truly.

“No… yes…” he broke off, studying my entire form with a critical eye. “No,” he finally settled.

Dismissed. Thoroughly, completely, unambiguously.

“Right… I’ll just be on my way then,” I muttered, a forlorn note creeping in. But I was unwilling to force my company on him.

Rosehill sighed as he shifted his weight onto his heels. Then his head tipped back to the ceiling, eyelids shut.

When he finished his ritual, his gaze found mine and pinned me in place. “You haven’t noticed any… escape routes? Have you?”

“Escape routes?”

“Never mind. It’s— Davina!” he called out to someone behind me, beckoning them forward with both hands.

A lovely girl in a fine frock of an indeterminate color stalked to his side, her arms crossed and expression unimpressed.

“You summoned?” she asked, mouth twisted into a pout. Then her gaze flitted toward me. “Who is this little cricket?”

I— What? Cricket?

“He’s not…” His Grace said, trailing off before he waved away the thought with one hand. “Mr. Timothy Gregerson. Mr. Gregerson, Lady Davina.” He gestured between us, not taking his gaze from the lady.

“It’s Tom?—”

“And where have you been?” His Grace demanded of the lady. His lady? My heart ached in pathetic agony at the thought.

“I was with Cee,” she insisted. Then, she turned toward me. “Mr. Gregerson, it is an absolute pleasure to make your acquaintance.” There was something flirtatious in her tone that had me stepping back.

“It’s Mr. Gr?—”

“No. Absolutely not,” Rosehill asserted in her direction, once again ignoring my attempted correction.

“Xander! Don’t be rude,” she retorted with a petty stomp of her foot.

Xander…

He dragged a rough hand through his hair, mussing the perfectly coiffed strands enticingly. “Get in the carriage,” he ordered.

Lady Davina grumbled but still made to follow his instructions and flitted past him. One step. Two.

“Freeze,” he demanded.

Again she obeyed and paused mid-step without so much as a huff.

“Turn.”

The pivot on her heels was slow, deliberate. When she finally faced us, her eyes were wide with false innocence and her lips were parted.

Rosehill’s hand shot out in front of him, palm up. “Reticule.”

She rolled her eyes in answer before plopping the beaded bag in his palm with the previously forgone huff.

He loosened the drawstring and pulled out a glinting decorative snuffbox. Xand—Rosehill sighed and held the box aloft for me to take. I raised a hand unthinkingly and he plopped it in—gloved fingers brushing against my palm. My heart tripped a beat or two.

“Can you see this returned to its rightful place? Thank you so much, Mr. Granger.”

“I don’t”—he was already shooing the lady, whom I was beginning to suspect, with some relief, was the sister and not a romantic prospect, toward the door—“live here. And it’s Grayson. Tom Grayson,” I called after them pathetically.

The snuffbox lay in my open palm, delicate gold flowers and vines wrapped around a refined agate lid and sides.

Without considering the implications, I wrapped my fingers around it, slipped it into my pocket, and thought no more of it. At least, not until later that night when I snuck it from my pocket and into my bedside table where it would remain for some time.