Prologue
Obsession.
Delicate yet spirited. Undeterred by life.
She embodied all he yearned for.
Casper trailed a solitary finger along the thin black ribbon caught in a tight bow at her nape and longed to lean close, to loosen it with a single nip of his teeth.
Tendrils of walnut-brown hair caressed her earlobe and he traced the curls, ached to feel such resplendence upon his bared skin.
The defiant beauty, however, refused to turn at his impudent touch, denying Casper her silken face. Instead, she merely presented him with a blushing cheekbone, glimpse of stubborn chin and naked shoulder held straight and bold.
Some labelled Casper cold and obsessive, tedious and brusque… Yet with this woman, he felt anything but. He burned, body consumed with want, flushed with pride and possession.
She belonged to him.
Yet if he were to be truthful, utter perfection remained out of reach. A pale, curved scar marred that exposed shoulder, skin cast sallow against the coils of darker hair, and her gown flamed a brash crimson lake.
It mattered not.
Duty to his estate, the burden of responsibility, suffering tenants, failing crops – all was soothed in her presence.
He willed that cheek to turn, to have her gaze upon him and whisper words of temptation. So reaching out once more, he grazed a thumb across the lace edge of that brazen frock as it rode low upon her back, revealing a contrary pure-white corset laced with lemon ribbon.
But naught. No female sigh nor sensual shudder.
Casper Brook, the eighth Duke of Rothwell, murmured a derisive laugh, twisted from her, snuffed out the candle and with quiet tread, strode from his study.
Leaving the exquisite portrait in darkness.
Chapter 1
To deal with the devil.
The shabbier side of London. April 1816.
“Iain’t sure yer fully understand yer situation, Missy. This ain’t no charity house, and I want me dough paid back sharpish. Now, if you were a tad more…agreeable, that might be a different matter. Always work for prime skirt in my gaff.”
Mr Filgrave – surely an invented name in order to instil terror – then reached into his puce-striped waistcoat to produce a goose quill toothpick with gold handle and ruby finial. Applying it to his front tooth with the utmost concentration, he simultaneously managed to scratch his groin, leaving no doubt in Evelyn’s mind as to what his “work”entailed.
“I can promise you, Mr Filgrave, that with my employment as scene painter at the theatre, I can pay you at least one shilling a wee–”
“I mean to say,” the moneylender continued, fingers now caressing and not scratching at all as he perused Evelyn’s form, gaze lingering upon her bosom, “you ain’t a bad bit o’ mutton except for that devil’s red hair.” Mr Filgrave removed the toothpick and peered at the impaled contents. “But that ain’t a concern, Miss Pearce. My other girls can dye it blond.”
Evelyn’s eyes flitted around the room in search of some improbable saviour but they instead fell upon a plate of half-consumed eggs and bacon which lay on the nearby side table, producing in turn a queasy then ravenous sensation in the pit of her belly.
Breakfast was a commodity that she and her younger sister could no longer afford – along with new gloves and delicate sensibilities.
The rest of the room lay in shadow, light cut by the packed-in dwellings and leaden-grey cloud that smothered the city, but squinting, she could just make out the grim minion who’d ushered her in, along with a squat trinket cabinet, a hefty sofa of Pomona green, and a rather inept painting of a nude.
Never should she have fallen within this moneylender’s sordid grasp but wishes were two-a-penny in the back lanes of London, and this meeting at Mr Filgrave’s Dyott Street premises offered a last opportunity to make a deal with the devil.
She debated her options. After all, there now remained only two ways to pay off her debt.
Number one: be more…agreeable.
Mr Filgrave began once more detaching breakfast from his rear cavities, face contorting with the trickiness of the task. Grimy fingernails plucked at a stained cravat – egg yolk, if she wasn’t much mistaken – and the scent of gin oozed from his skin. No doubt he’d been a handsome fellow many…many years ago, but the wages of sin and blue ruin had been costly, bloating his features and pouching his eyes.
