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Essex, England

Nottingshire Court

Home of Lady Pandora Osborne

Middle of January — Evening

I shouldn’t have come.

This was a monumental mistake. A sodding, imbecilic, bloody mistake.

Putting two fingers to the jagged scar zigzagging across his left cheek, Caspian Graystone, Baron Strathmore—called the blackhearted baron behind his back and occasionally to his face—paused inside the ballroom’s glittering entrance.

Why had he allowed Ronan Brockman and Manchester, Marquess of Sterling, to talk him into attending what was certain to be a week-long, excruciatingly tedious pain in the posterior? Cynicism bent Caspian’s mouth upward, and anyone glancing in his direction would recognize him for what he was—a jaded, sardonic skeptic.

Elegantly coiffed ladies draped in sparkling jewels and swathed in silks and satins in every shade of the rainbow twirled around the chalked parquet dance floor with gentlemen attired in the first stare of fashion.

Pretentious popinjays and conceited coxcombs, the lot.

Nay, not all of the fellows.

According to Brockman, a few other sensible chaps made the coveted guest list, though how Brockman came by that exclusive information was anyone’s guess. The Earls of Hythe, Bixley, and Barington, as well as Viscounts Harcourt, Silverton, and the Duke of Sedgewick were expected. Whether the lords chose to subject themselves to this gratuitous torment or not, however…

They were the only thing that kept Caspian from turning on his heel and sequestering himself for the evening in the study or library with a bottle of prime scotch. Mayhap not a bottle, but a dram or two.

In truth, the notion tempted greatly.

Though an aristocrat by birthright, Caspian didn’t belong here—didn’t belong amongst le beau monde. The ton had made that perfectly clear six years ago. Regardless, he’d made his friends a promise, and if nothing else—despite the smudges upon his dented reputation—Caspian was a man of his word.

In point of fact, just appearing tonight would suffice as the fulfillment of his pledge to attend the house party. No need to torture himself and stay more than a day or two.

Besides, he preferred to monitor Thirkwick Park’s reconstruction progress himself. He’d far rather be there laying bricks, hoisting lumber, nailing flooring, or performing any number of other tasks required to rebuild the once-magnificent manor that had sustained grievous fire damage.

The very inferno Caspian had escaped by diving through an upper-story window—hence his scarred face and arm. The blaze had also taken the lives of his entire family: father, brother, pregnant sister-in-law, and demented stepmother, Florinda. Caspian would go to his grave convinced Florinda had set the fire in one of her frequent and ever more irrational frenzies.

With pure determination, he took a firm grip on his memory and veered his disquieting musings from that fateful night. With bored disinterest, he surveyed the festive tableau before him. The merest pinch of a headache throbbed behind his eyes as it inevitably did when he entertained recollections of the deadly conflagration that had left him alone in the world.

The fire that had also left Caspian a pariah to Society.

In an effort to ease the aggravating ache prodding his skull, Caspian rubbed the bridge of his nose. He stopped as two ladies passed, their eyes widening in recognition, before they dipped their graying heads together. The feathers in their silk turbans battled for dominance in a comical duel as the women broke into frenetic whispers.

Indulging the wicked urge to take them down a peg, Caspian gave them a devilish wink and skewed his mouth into a mocking grin. He knew full well that his scar pulled his mouth into a cockeyed, rather macabre grimace. More than one child had broken into frightened cries when he’d smiled at them.

So he’d stopped doing so.

He might be a monster in appearance but wasn’t so in character. Unless one counted cynicism and taciturnity as character flaws.

Clutching one another’s arms in alarm, the be-ribboned and be-ruffled dames practically fell over each other in their haste to put distance between him and them. It would serve the biddies right if they toppled, ample bosoms over even ampler bums, onto the dance floor.

Though he was loath to admit it, the encounter bothered Caspian more than it ought. Hadn’t his pride been bludgeoned enough? Why put himself through this farce?

He searched the teeming ballroom for a single friend. He hadn’t many left, truth be told. Merely a handful of loyal men who valued character over rumors. Friendship over titillating tattle. Who believed him and not the embellished gossip still circulating certain elite drawing rooms.

To be perfectly honest, the invitation to attend Lady Pandora Osborne’s house party had taken him aback. They didn’t travel in the same social circles, although she had been a close friend of his mother’s many long years ago.

Perhaps pity or a misguided sense of obligation had spurred her to include Caspian. A perverted sense of curiosity or anticipation his presence would liven up an otherwise predictable gathering weren’t farfetched motivations either.

In retrospect, the latter two were the more likely possibilities.