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Chapter 1
London, Midsummer night.
“Sweet merciful heaven,” Alasdair Hugh Morley, the Marquess of Westcliffe muttered hoarsely.
An enchantress.
Nothing else made sense for how she commanded his attention. The fickle beauty stood perfectly motionless, her head tilted left, the graceful and delicate arch of her neck on tantalizing display, a sensual smile on her lips. Lady Willow Rosalind Arlington, daughter of the Duke and Duchess of Milton, was exceptionally beautiful, though not in the way society would deem fashionable. Some like his mother would say the young lady was too plump, her hair too dark, and her skin too pale, but to Alasdair, she was a rare ruby in the midst of glittering diamonds.
The sight of her filled him with an unwelcomed rush of pleasure. Lady Willow was indeed a vision. Her alabaster skin was a vivid contrast against the high waisted sapphire colored gown she wore. Her dark hair was piled high on top of her head with flowers woven between the strands, and though her body was plump, she was sweetly curved. He had realistically known she would be in attendance at tonight’s Midsummer ball and thought he had been prepared. But nothing in his wildest imagination could have readied him for the emotions she evoked after all these years—a bewildering mix of joy, cold rage, and heated desire.
Devil take it.
Her lips curved deeper into a mysterious smile, tempting, rousing his memory of their succulent taste. What the hell was wrong with him? Had he not learned his most painful lesson at her hands? Words he would never be able to forget slithered to the forefront of his mind, the last place he wanted them to be.
I am to marry His Grace, the Duke of Salop. My father accepted his offer yesterday. I thank you for the kind attentions you bestowed on me, but I cannot marry you. Please forget my earlier declarations. I should not have been so bold as to say I love you and will marry you. You are the third son, Alasdair…my father will never accept your courtship.
Words that had been said almost six years ago still had the power to torment him, and here he had thought he was ready to see her, that she was only a phantom of his past. If only she had known then his chances of inheriting the title would be greater than anyone imagined. After all, he was now the Marquess of Westcliffe and the last of his cursed line.
He almost forgot all the pertinent reasons he was present at the Duke and Duchess of Milton’s annual Midsummer Night’s Ball. Alasdair despised balls and social gatherings, finding them tedious and unimportant. His mother had never understood his position. She had been aghast that he had not been amenable to attending tonight’s event, which had turned into a celebration of the Duke of Wellington’s victory.
While he was glad they were now safe from the advancement of Napoleon’s troops and machinations, Alasdair had only to close his eyes, and the carnage of war swam across his vision. There had been no victor. Hopes and dreams had been crushed, and the lives of thousands of men, women, and children had been obliterated.
He glanced around the brightly lit ball, the extravagant decorations, and the crush of people as they jostled to greet each other, their facile chatter ringing in his ears over the rousing strains of the orchestra. Women and men swirled across the ballroom, laughing and talking, glittering in their fineries, thrilled to be at the most coveted event of the season, soaking in the gaiety and music. How oblivious they were to the atrocities of life. And suddenly he was glad, for they were fortunate to be ensconced in such a bubble, away from fear, pain, despair, hunger, and terror.
Though he now faced a situation almost as daunting as being on the battlefield. His purpose tonight was calculated, though it left a bitter taste in his mouth. Finding a wife, a young heiress. Any heiress would do, though he hoped to select someone from the marriage mart with a modicum of intelligence and a pleasant countenance. While he did not yearn for love, he would speak with and gaze upon his marchioness for years to come, and he would like to hold her in more esteem than what she brought to his pockets.
“The young lady you are staring at so avidly, and quite rudely, is Lady Willow, His Grace’s only daughter. I am sure you are acquainted with her from your visits to Hadley House years go,” his mother, the Dowager Marchioness whispered almost conspiratorially. “Lady Willow has not made an appearance in London in years, and the family is very tightlipped as to the reason. Her dowry is rumored to be twenty-five thousand with an annuity of ten thousand pounds. Let us greet our hostess and seek a reintroduction to her daughter. I am sure the waltz will be danced tonight. You should secure her for your partner.”
He grunted noncommittally. The last place he wanted to be was near Lady Willow. Touching her, smelling her. Seeing those beautiful moss green eyes turn to distaste, and he hungering for a simple smile from her. His thoughts made him cold, and the rage he had buried burned just a bit brighter. Maybe he needed to fulfil the promise he had made to himself years ago. The promise to seduce the bewitching beauty and soothe the tormenting hunger he had for her and then walk away. Satisfaction filled him at the thought. Was she promised to a gentleman? He hoped not, for while he still wanted to punish her wit
h pain and pleasure, he did not dally with women already spoken for.
His mother glanced up sharply at his lack of response. “You promised, Alasdair,” she admonished with a frown.
“Hold your tongue, Mother.” He placed her hand on his arm and strolled with her through the throng toward the card rooms, never taking his eyes from Lady Willow. “You wheedled and prodded, and I am in attendance. I will select my dance partners without nudges from you.”
Her hand tightened on his arm, and he glanced down. Fire snapped in grey eyes almost identical to his own, and her lips closed in a flat line of irritation. But he would not be swayed. He was already doing his duty, and she had harangued him every day on what she considered was expected. He knew very well her agenda tonight was to help him select a potential bride, for his mother spent the majority of her days worrying about his marital status.
“If you are not eager to be reacquainted with Lady Willow, you should then make your introductions to Lady Madalene, the eldest daughter of the Earl of Gilmanton. Rumor has it he has doubled her dowry.”
Without answering, Alasdair deposited his mother in the card room and excused himself from her presence. He understood her urging, but the only young lady currently engaging his attention was Lady Willow.
Unable to stop the desire, his gaze automatically sought for her. The yearning on her face drove the air from his lungs. It was intense, painful, hauntingly lovely, and suddenly he wanted to be the one to give her whatever she craved. Foolish to be certain, for he was not a man to give into flights of fancy or romantic idiocy. Not after she had shattered his heart, not after the atrocities of the war.
He followed the line of her gaze and frowned. She looked toward the potted plants by the terrace. Hardly a thing to inspire the wistfulness on her lovely features. She moved as if pulled by a greater power toward the music. Her steps were hesitant, halting, as if she were unsure of what to do. Teeth sank into a pouting bottom lip, and she worried at it before changing the direction of her steps.
Her sudden turn had her colliding into the footman with the tray of champagne.
The crash was jarring. She went white, and one of her hands fluttered to her throat. She glanced around as if looking for someone, and if he was not mistaken, she paled even further at the silence generated by her accident. A swell of murmuring rose, and a few ladies even craned their necks to observe the mishap, no doubt eager for some gossip to impart tomorrow, even if it was mundane. Why did she not walk away? Instead, she gripped the folds of her gown, panic chasing over her features. Her throat convulsed on a swallow, and vulnerability settled on her face.
Alasdair was disturbed by the wave of tenderness that swept through him. He gritted his teeth in annoyance. Tender affections were the last emotion he wanted to feel for her. Where was the rage that should incite him, to want to cause her harm after her callous disregard? He searched for it and came up blank, startling him, given the number of bitter thoughts he’d had about her over the years after she had rejected him. Not good. The only thought he should spare Lady Willow was in seducing her, taking everything he had been denied because of her inconsistency, branding her body and soul with the taste and feel of him so that when he turned from her, she understood the depth of pain he had felt at her refusal. But the panic on her face tugged at the cold place inside of him, and he wanted to reassure her and soothe whatever caused her to display such anxiety.
He strolled toward her casually, ignoring the murmured greetings and the nods from other men.
Don’t do it you fool. Walk away…Ignore her distress.
Yet his feet continued. He was drawn by a greater need than simply to see her reaction when she realized he was now the Marquess of Westcliffe, and that he had every intention of exacting the false promises she had made. Everything in him demanded to see her lovely face up close, to see the smile that had once had the power to render him senseless, to drown himself in the beauty of her green eyes, and to hear her voice…sweet, yet husky, with the ability to jerk his cock to life from a mere chuckle.
He was a damn fool.
Chapter 2
Mortification threatened to drown her. Lady Willow could still hear the shocked murmurs and whispers at her blunder. How could she have allowed herself to relax so?
“How clumsy!” a voice twittered.
