Page 1

CHAPTER 1

“ S arah will be my countess.”

Eyes narrowed into sapphire slits, lips drew a severe slash. The ice sparkling in the windows seeped into the chamber, as the duke speared him with a glare as sharp as any icicle dagger.

Hardly the hearty exuberance Damien Charles, the Earl of Rourke, expected.

The coolness played foil to the warmth of the luxurious drawing room, the comforting symphony of rich oak furniture, intricate tapestries and priceless antiques that only sampled the extravagance of the ducal townhouse. A fire crackled in the massive marble hearth, scenting the room in smoke and wood, as Edmund Hawkins, the Duke of Bradenton, sipped his brandy. “Sarah received a dozen offers already. She has asked to choose her own match.”

Damien allowed none of his displeasure to show, as he sat as tightly as an Almack Patroness’s corset. That the spirited beauty already received a dozen offers was no surprise. Beyond her nearly obscene dowry, she possessed a rare beauty, with hair of spun gold and eyes the color of the morning sea. For most lords, her physical assets more than compensated for rumors she was beyond fashionably spirited.

For him, the money was negligible, the beauty pleasing yet unnecessary. That spirit?

That’s why she would be his.

That she received – and would no doubt continue to receive – offers did not matter. That Bradenton did not immediately agree was a challenge, but not unsurmountable. Damien did not wait for the world to accommodate him, but rearranged matters until the outcome was favorable, seizing power few in the ton held. “I would provide her with a most fortuitous match.”

“I have no doubt.” A sliver of regret tinged his friend’s eyes, melting into neutrality a second later. “Yet I must stand by my promise.”

“Come now.” Damien swirled the amber liquid of his crystal goblet. “You are her guardian. It is your right – and responsibility – to arrange an advantageous marriage.” His title spanned generations, his fortune rare even among the elite ton. “She would enjoy all the benefits of my position and wealth. I would provide a safe, secure and easy life.”

“I do not believe Sarah desires a safe, secure and easy life,” Bradenton mused, folding his hands together. His gaze narrowed. “Why are you so set on the match? You’ve only met her once, and if I recall, it was a bit of a sticky situation.”

Literally. They’d been introduced the night he finally decided to take a countess. He’d danced with beauty after beauty, enjoying the attention of countless ladies groomed for the position. Every word carefully chosen, false sentiments rampant amidst delicately fluttering eyelashes and half a dozen swoons.

Then Sarah had spilled an entire bowl of fruit punch on him.

The action hadn’t been purposeful, or at least it didn’t appear that way. She’d been racing through the hall, laughing with a joy as rare as a shilling in a spendthrift’s pocket. She hadn’t noticed the bowl – or him.

He’d noticed her.

Most women would have been mortified at the crisp white cravat dyed a shocking hue of pink. A book on proper etiquette would’ve listed swooning as the only appropriate response. Yet instead she’d grinned impishly and whispered, “That’s what you get for distracting me.” Then she’d apologized in a showing befit of a queen and dashed into the crowd.

He’d watched her the rest of the night, garbed in a damp and colorful cravat that didn’t bother him nearly the proper amount. The amusement never left her face, not as she danced, not as she conversed with every wallflower and not as she bestowed countless smiles. That was the night the future Countess of Rourke was set.

Nothing, and no one, would change his path.

“You have your choice of diamonds of the first water.” Bradenton’s baritone tugged him back to the present. “Most guardians would accept your offer on the spot.”

Yet none other could grant Sarah. Damien rose and stepped next to a jewel-encrusted vase almost as tall as his 6’3 frame. “She struck something in me. When she asks to make her own choice, is she perhaps asking to not make a choice at all?”

Bradenton’s eyes hardened. “I do not know,” he admitted.

“That cannot be to your liking.” Damien traced the engraved sides of the vase, where emeralds sparkled. “You must worry for her, especially given her independent streak.”

As flashing eyes confirmed his estimation, Damien pressed forward. “I am strong enough to handle her. If you will not outright agree to the match, then allow me to host her at my country estate for the winter.”

Bradenton’s gaze sharpened.

“Properly chaperoned, of course. My aunts live there full time.” Damien held out a hand. “When it snows, the roads become unpassable. If she accidentally became trapped, it would provide me with the opportunity to court her. You could even come if you’d like.”

Bradenton traced his fingers along the marble mantle. For a moment he said nothing, bestowing scrutiny that would have unnerved a weaker man.

Damien simply matched the gaze.

“She believes I see her as a responsibility, yet she is family. I care about her.” Rare emotion shone in the duke’s expression, before it disappeared a moment later. “You are not wrong that she needs someone strong. I believe you suit her well, and most of all, you would provide her with a good life. Perhaps we will take a short trip to your country estate. Priscilla and I will accompany her for the ride, but will return the same day. With my responsibilities, I cannot afford to be trapped away from London.”

Damien allowed his lips to curve up. “Are you going to share that with the ladies?”

“I think not.” Bradenton stood and held out his hand. “Of course, Sarah will demand to leave once she learns the truth. If the snow fails to arrive, you will have difficulty keeping her.”

“Don’t worry.” Damien shook Bradenton’s hand. “I fully expect a winter wonderland.”

“I refuse to leave London in the middle of the winter.” Sarah Hawkins clutched her cream winter clothing closer, shifting on the plush seat of the grand ducal coach. “What if we get trapped?”

She had refused a week ago, when Bradenton first mentioned the trip, then again the next day and the day after that. Now, nearly at their destination, it was an impractical exercise, yet she couldn’t surrender her ability to voice her opinion, no matter its inefficacy in a man’s world.

Yet, in truth, she was fortunate. When her father passed away, she feared the distant cousin she’d never met would leave her in the cold. Bradenton had done the opposite, taking her to London, paying for a season, and most of all granting her kindness and comfort. Yet it came at the cost of her freedom, and more than once, she missed that tiny whitewashed cottage with the leaky shingles and rickety fence.

The carriage rumbled over branches and logs, crunching brittle leaves, threading through bare trees. A woodsy aroma tinged the cool air, a welcome change from the heavy perfumes and endless grime of London.

“We’re unlikely to get trapped.” Bradenton did not remove his gaze from the government papers he’d perused the entire two-hour trip. “There’s no use protesting when we’re almost there.”

“I’ve been protesting for days,” Sarah grumbled. “Why aren’t women permitted to direct their own lives?”

“Indeed.” Priscilla lifted an eyebrow at her husband.

“I consider your opinions.” Edmund turned to the next page. “I denied the dozen lords who asked for your hand, as you demanded.”

“That’s because they weren’t asking me to marry them.”

The paper crinkled as Bradenton bent it down. “Then whom, pray tell, were they asking?”

“Your money.” She grinned. “I imagine they will dine next to my dowry during the wedding breakfast and take it on holiday. They will dress it in bonnets and jewels. I wonder, how does one waltz with a shilling?”

Intelligent eyes sparkled. “You underestimate your own charms.”

She opened her mouth to respond, stopped as a tower peeked between brittle brown branches in the distance. It was tall and thin, hinting at a modest estate at best, a meager one at least. Belonging to a lord in need of a rich wife, perhaps?

Her throat dried. “You said we were visiting several elderly ladies. Is an eligible lord also in attendance?”

Silence revealed a hundred answers.

Sarah closed her eyes, opened them to a clearly unrepentant lord. Priscilla glared at her husband, who shrugged and replied, “You won’t even notice him.”

“If it snows, we’ll be trapped here all winter. Did you notice that narrow pass-through between the mountains?” Sarah parted her lips. “Wait, that’s not your–”

“We’re here.” Bradenton folded the papers.

Sarah looked out the window and gasped.

Meager estate indeed.

The tower had been like an iceberg’s tip, small, unassuming and grossly misrepresenting its true nature. The manor was massive, vine-covered brick walls extending one way and the other, as if they simply forgot to end. Its immense breadth was matched by its towering height, five stories tall without the turrets. Rich cream columns curved upward, carved with swirling designs of leaves and vines.

How could the man who owned this estate need funds? Could he be impoverished in caring for such a grand residence? Last week, one of her suitors rattled off a list of improvements her dowry would provide and–

All thoughts fled.

A man emerged from the tall, carved double doors. Commanding. Well-built. Authoritative. Damien Charles, the Earl of Rourke, was the most handsome man in England, and one of the most powerful in the world. His fortune was legendary, and so was he.

He was a masterpiece of masculinity, his height well above six feet, his shoulders wide, his chest broad and expansive. His eyes were a shock of blue, his chiseled face a study of symmetry and sultry beauty. A perfectly tailored suit didn’t hide his muscular form, as he strode down the stairs, master of his domain.

He stopped mere feet away, capturing her in his powerful gaze. A predatory gleam blazed, a determination, a challenge.

With endless wealth, Rourke didn’t need money.

With his lofty position and handsome visage, he had his choice of ladies.

He ruled his world…

What did he want with her?