Page 1

Chapter 1

Present Day – Spring 1744

Gideon Grey, the Duke of Wolverstone, cracked open his heavy eyelids and squinted.

Nothing but darkness.

Were his eyes truly open?

He jerked his arms, trying to scrub his face, but something heavy held them down. He yanked again, harder this time—managing to raise his hands only to his chin—when a telltale metallic clink confirmed his worst fear: he was shackled.

He could just make out the outline of his hands in the dark, tightly encased in thick iron. His pulse quickened, beating sharply against his neck and reverberating through his sluggish body. He tried to bolt upright, to rip the restraints free from their anchors, but the chains restrained his movement, sending him crashing back and cracking his skull against the stone wall behind him.

Ah!

God’s teeth! That hurt, sending shockwaves through his entire body and leaving his ears ringing.

No, getting up was out of the question. He could barely move away from the wall, let alone the floor.

He was restrained. Shackled.

Gideon sagged back, his spine pressed against the cold stone wall. He spread his fingers in front of his face and studied them—palms and knuckles—dirt-streaked, bruised, trembling.

His joints ached. His muscles screamed. His entire body pulsed with the deep, dull throb of a thorough beating.

What in hell and damnation had happened?

Where was he?

And how in God’s name had he come to be here?

* * *

Twenty-nine days earlier…

The Duke of Wolverstone exited the dark, silent bedchamber and closed the door behind him with a quiet click. He paused and looked around, listening for any sound, watching for any sign that he had been seen. Nothing but the distant strains of a cotillion and the soft murmur of conversation drifted up from below.

Satisfied that his movements had gone undetected, he crossed the corridor, the thick Persian carpet muffling his steps, and stopped outside the mistress of the house’s bedchamber.

Laughter floated up the staircase, the merriment of the people in the ballroom loud and at odds with the dark stillness and hush of the upper floors.

He opened the door and slipped inside. The bedchamber was dim, lit only by a single candle. A woman’s silhouette stood at the window and turned as he entered.

“Wolverstone.” Vivienne, Lady Hardgrove, rushed toward him, her silk gown rustling in the darkness. “I was beginning to think you wouldn’t come.”

Before he could respond, her hand settled boldly between his legs, cupping him through his breeches. The touch sent blood rushing to his groin… and it seemed only to his groin.

There wasn’t even a whisper of gooseflesh across his skin, no burn to his lips, no butterflies in his stomach. His heart beat slowly and steadily; his mind was cold and distant.

He remained frozen. Unmoved.

His cock moved, though. It swelled, shifting uncomfortably against the confines of his breeches—and that was enough for Vivienne. She smiled, her hands tracing a path upward, nimble fingers working at the buttons of his waistcoat.

“I knew you wanted this too,” she whispered, her voice breathless with desire.

He did want this. Or at least, his body did. He hadn’t felt the warmth of a woman in a long time. He needed to release the tension coiled inside him.

Though that wasn’t the only reason he was there.