Chapter One
July 1817
A private party
London, England
* * *
“Happy birthday Monsale. Thirty-three today, you poor old thing,” said Harry.
“Not old, and most definitely not poor,” snorted Monsale.
Lady Naomi Steele stifled a laugh. Her brother Harry was always giving Monsale grief over the fact that he was older than the other members of the RR Coaching Company. But Monsale had the right of it when it came to wealth. Of all the rogues of the road, he was by far and away the richest.
And the only one still unwed.
The three of them were standing to one side of an overcrowded ballroom in an elegant mansion in Duke Street. And while Harry and Monsale were each nursing a large brandy, Naomi was doing her best to appear casually interested in watching a dull quadrille that was taking place. She wasn’t in the mood for champagne.
Harry’s wife Alice had cried off from tonight’s festivities. The exhausted new mother was at home getting some well-deserved sleep. A reluctant Naomi had been pestered into accompanying her brother this evening. Considering his former reputation as a society peacock, she thought it rather quaint that Harry had developed an aversion to attending social functions on his own.
The joy of being one half of a couple, I suppose.
Naomi turned and smiled at Monsale. “Yes, your grace, happy birthday, I wish you both health and happiness. And since your family is renowned for its longevity, I expect we shall have your company for many years to come.”
Monsale raised an eyebrow. “Yes, well, only those family members who managed to avoid getting a stray bullet or a sword in their bellies were the ones graced with long lives. Fortunately, if my present run of luck holds, I should be able to look forward to making it to a ripe old age.” He glanced down at his brandy glass, studying it for a moment. “It’s the happiness bit I am not so certain of Lady Naomi— that appears to have eluded me.”
Yes, well, a stone heart doesn’t receive warmth, your grace.
Biting her tongue, Naomi turned her attention back to the dance. She would not be the one to make mention that a man could find happiness in the state of wedded bless.
I am willing to give you all my love for the rest of my life, Monsale. You simply have to ask.
Her generous offer did, however, come with some conditions. Monsale had to reciprocate her affections. To willingly offer up his own heart.
Naomi wouldn’t ever enter into a loveless union. As far as she was concerned, spinsterhood was a far better option than being bound to a man who kept himself closed off from his wife’s love.
Harry elbowed his friend in the ribs. “What you need to get yourself is a bride. A loving wife would bring you much joy. I can’t believe I am saying this, but marriage has a great deal to offer a chap.”
Lord Harry Steele had turned in his wicked party man card and become a dutiful husband and doting father. Naomi chanced a look at her brother, he was positively beaming. She had never seen him so happy. Love looked good on him.
If only she could say the same for herself. Unrequited love was a cruel burden at the best of times, at the worst— soul-destroying. Standing this close to the man who held her love so thoughtlessly in his hands had a familiar twinge of pain settling uncomfortably in her chest.
Why must loving someone hurt so much?
She had lost her heart to the tawny haired Monsale the first second she had laid eyes on him. He had been thirteen, she was a mere seven. And yet, there had been something about the poorly dressed Andrew McNeal which had captivated her, long before she knew what the word love truly meant.
Her father, the Duke of Redditch had taken the orphan boy-duke under his wing the moment he arrived in London. And with his careful guidance, he had helped Monsale to slowly pull the McNeal family finances back from the brink of bankruptcy.
When he finally reached his majority, Monsale had taken over the full management of his estate and through his own efforts had taken the dukedom’s wealth to a whole new level. It was rumored that he was now one of the richest men in all of Britain. More affluent than even all the major banking families.
Yet no woman had managed to capture his heart. He remained, steadfastly, and in Naomi’s opinion, stubbornly, a bachelor.
Why can’t you see me? I am standing right here, ready to love you.
Naomi stirred from her musings as the music stopped, and the quadrille came to an end. They applauded the dancers. Harry downed his glass of brandy and gave her a gentle nudge.
“Why aren’t you twirling around the floor this evening, Naomi? I know you love to dance.”
