Chapter One
“You are the most tedious man in London, Ravenhurst, and I say that with genuine admiration.”
Ash Hambridge, third Duke of Ravenhurst, allowed the gold casing of his father’s pocket watch to turn once, twice, three times between his fingers before he deigned to reply. The metal caught the low flame of Madame Aurelie’s upper salon with each rotation, a small bright pulse against the stale air.
“If your admiration were genuine, Devlin, you would afford me the courtesy of silence.”
Devlin laughed, the sound carrying the particular warmth of a man who had consumed two glasses of brandy more than the rest of the room. Lord Rourke, sprawled across the chaise beside the window, joined him. Young Lord Aldous chimed in a moment too late, still laboring under the impression that laughing with earls at three in the morning made him interesting.
“Silence is the refuge of the uninspired,” Devlin countered, lifting his glass to signal one of Aurelie’s girls for a refill. “And we are desperately in need of inspiration. Look at you. Surrounded by the finest velvet and the most accommodating company in Mayfair, and you are timing the demise of the evening.”
Ash closed the watch with a soft click. “I am timing your monologue. We are approaching the five-minute mark.”
Lisette shifted in his lap, her bare shoulder warm under his gloved hand. She watched his fingers with the careful, trained attention of a woman paid to find a duke fascinating. Her hair was unpinned, falling across one shoulder, and the cloying, floral scent of her perfume rose with each small adjustment she made against his thigh.
“He has a point, Stormont,” Rourke said from the chaise, entirely failing to suppress a yawn. “You have been complaining about the season since March, and it is only April.”
“The season is entirely without merit.” Devlin leaned forward, the firelight catching the signet ring on his little finger. The charm sat on his face like gilt on cheap furniture, bright until one looked too closely. “Rourke lost the Langley wager inside a fortnight. Aldous lost his barouche at Epsom before the mud was even dry. I have orchestrated three separate entertainments myself, and each one of them has ended before the second act.”
“The Langley business required me to stay sober for nine consecutive evenings,” Rourke protested. “You try surviving Almack’s without being thoroughly fortified. The difficulty was unreasonable.”
“The difficulty was the only point,” Devlin said, ignoring the interruption. “We have run out of things that are difficult. There is no sport left. Especially not for Ravenhurst.”
Ash kept his gaze on the watch in his palm. He had spent eight London seasons doing precisely what a duke of considerable fortune and no attachments was expected to do, and the pursuit had long since become scenery. He did not need to participate to know how the play ended. “I am perfectly content with my lack of sport.”
“You are entirely vacant,” Devlin corrected, smiling the hungry smile he reserved for traps. “You have routed every matchmaking mama from Mayfair to Bath, you have bedded every widow of note, and you sit there staring at a timepiece because you cannot manufacture a single reason to care about tomorrow morning.”
Ash’s thumb found the hinge of the watch, pressing it just enough to let the casing open a fraction before snapping it shut. He had not opened it fully in front of another person in fouryears, and he had no intention of starting now. The small click was the most interesting sound in the room. “And you have a remedy for this profound tragedy.”
“I have a proposal.”
“No.” Ash slid the watch into his waistcoat pocket. He had heard Devlin’s proposals before. They ranged from the merely ill-advised to the actively destructive.
“Five thousand,” Devlin said, letting the words hang in the thick air of the salon, “and the chestnut.”
Rourke sat up from his sprawl, and Aldous carefully lowered his glass to the side table.
Ash finally lifted his eyes. “You cannot afford Dorado.”
“I can afford the wager,” Devlin said smoothly. “Five thousand pounds and the Andalusian stallion against your ability to make the most invisible girl of the season fall in love with you by the end of June.”
Ash considered the man across from him. The candle nearest Devlin’s chair had burned down to a stub, casting his features in sharp, uneven relief. “Define invisible.”
“A wallflower. Fourth season at minimum.” Devlin ticked the requirements off on his fingers. “No recorded suitors. No prospects. No connections to any family that might demand a duel. The kind of girl the rest of the ton has already decided does not exist. The kind who would believe you if you told her she was worth looking at.”
Lisette’s fingers paused their slow tracing against Ash’s lapel. She recognized a shift in the room’s temperature, a sudden sharpening of the attention around them, even if she did not understand the stakes.
“You are asking me to seduce a spinster,” Ash said, his voice stripped of whatever slight amusement he had carried a moment before.
“I am asking you to make her believe you.” Devlin spread his hands. “Anyone can seduce. You must secure a public declaration, a refusal to deny the attachment, a display of devotion that the most seasoned gossips would accept as genuine.”
“End of June gives him ten weeks,” Rourke calculated, the odds already turning behind his eyes.
“Ten weeks,” Devlin agreed. “And you cannot simply choose a lady who might harbour a secret penchant for rakes. We leave the selection to fate.”
The salon went quiet, the sudden silence heavy enough to swallow the crackle of the hearth. Even the two dark-haired girls sharing a settee at the far end of the room ceased their murmuring.
“How?” Ash asked, the single word quieter than the rest.
