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Part One

Prologue

February 20, 1816

12, Mayfair Place

The Duke of Huntington’s townhouse

“I’ve found your duchess.” Determination was stamped all over the dowager duchess’s face. “Lady Stella Corsham is perfect for you: the granddaughter of a marquess, with a sizable dowry. Able-bodied, well-bred, and original.”

In an act of profound self-control, Silvester Parnell, Duke of Huntington, did not roll his eyes.

Or otherwise indicate that in demanding her son marry a version of herself—a short, opinionated woman, albeit with spectacles rather than a monocle—his mother had lost her mind.

“‘Original’ is not a characteristic that interests me,” he said instead.

His mother’s eyes sharpened. “I suppose you are looking for a girlish nitwit who will entertain ladies for tea and never embarrass her children.”

He pretended to think about it. “Does she have to be a nitwit?”

“Yes,” the dowager snapped, adding: “Because you want her to swill tea all day long.”

When his parents first married, rather than redecorate the ducal country house as did most new duchesses, Her Grace had redesigned the chimney on her husband’s first experimental steam engine. In the years since, she had delighted in flouting society with everything from her clothing (unconventional) to her entertainments (Julius Caesar performed by trained rats was a notable example).

Silvester and his sisters had grown up with the full knowledge that “polite” society considered his mother—and by extension, her family—to be eccentric, if not mad. Once sent to Eton, where he routinely engaged in fisticuffs in his parents’ defense, Silvester came to the conclusion that although he adored his mother, a less divisive duchess would be preferable.

“Do you think I am unaware of how much you and your sisters wish that I would blend into the wallpaper like most of the noodling nobility?” she demanded now.

“I am proud of your chimney,” Silvester said, meaning it. His mother’s clack box feed pipe for locomotives had survived four iterations of ducal steam engines and was still in use around the country.

“Lady Stella—”

Silvester interrupted. “Which doesn’t mean I want to marry Lady Stella.”

To be clear, he didn’t mind Stella’s lack of height or her spectacles. Certainly he appreciated her rather glorious bosom.

The eccentricity? That he minded.

Rumor had it that she’d read the entire encyclopedia, which explained the fact that their conversations were often startling. And interesting.

He liked arguing with Stella; he just didn’t want to marry her.

“Want to? Want to?” The dowager pounced like a robin on a worm. “What does want have to do with it? You need a duchess. Lady Stella is suitable.”

“My fiancée will be of my choosing, Mother. I would like to be in love with my wife.”

She snorted inelegantly. “Romance is a fool’s game, nothing to do with marriage. You’re making a laughingstock of yourself mooning about after Yasmin Régnier.”

Fool he may be, but Silvester intended to marry Yasmin. She had charm, hair the color of old ducats, a naughty giggle . . . More than that, he and Yasmin were friends, never mind the fact that he’d love to bed her.

He felt the pull of her in his bones, deep in his gut.

Perhaps even in his heart.

“Moonblind.” The dowager waved her monocle at him. “Lady Yasmin is not for you.” His mother was small in stature, but she made up for it with gargantuan willpower.

“I intend to ask Yasmin to marry me,” Silvester told her.