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Prologue
London
February 1816
In the spare winter moonlight, she glowed with a beauty that lit up the corners of Royal Kendrick’s battered soul. He felt alive again.
Lady Ainsley Matthews also possessed a lethal wit, one famed for sending even the most arrogant popinjay slinking off to the nearest corner. But to Royal, she was perfect, like a challenging book or complex piece of music. So perfect he’d never dared hope. He’d only dreamed—and feared, believing her notice of him was rooted in pity.
Earlier tonight, fate had placed them next to each other at dinner, a crowded affair noisy enough to give the illusion of privacy. An elderly, deaf matron had been seated to Royal’s left, while Ainsley’s other dinner partner was a rotund gourmand who cared only for his food. Left to their own devices, Royal and Ainsley had talked of everything and nothing, able to focus—for once—on each other.
When he’d proposed an escape from the overheated ballroom for a stroll along this quiet, dimly lit corridor, she’d said yes. Now, without hesitation, her steadfast gaze was letting him know she wanted this moment, too.
Royal wanted more than a moment. He wanted the pale, smooth skin, the shining obsidian hair, and the dark dramatic brows that framed the most impossible gaze in the world. Her eyes were the color of violets, a rich velvet-blue and so vivid he wondered they didn’t cast a light of their own. Just gazing at her vibrant beauty made his heart ache even more than his leg. That was a bloody miracle, given that his damn leg had been trying to kill him ever since that appalling day at Waterloo.
Another body part ached too, and with unseemly intensity thankfully hidden by the drape of his kilt. Insanely, Royal desired the brightest diamond of thetonmore than anything he’d ever wanted—more than a leg restored to health, more than a family resurrected from emotional ruin, more than a life untrammeled by war. His yearning for Ainsley made no damn sense, becausetheymade no damn sense.
She studied him, her expression revealing an unspoken question.
“What?” he asked.
“Sir, we can sit down in that alcove if you’d like to rest your leg.”
Whenever he heard Ainsley’s voice, he imagined lying in a field thick with pansies that matched the color of her eyes. It muddled his brain, making it impossible to think.
Her frown deepened. “You look ready to topple over. That would be distressing for both of us, especially me if you fell in my direction.”
That was pure Ainsley. Why the hell was he so smitten with the bloody woman? Some might say it was his cock, but it was more than simple physical attraction and he knew it.
“There’s no need to coddle me like an infant, my lady.” Not that anyone could imagine Ainsley coddling babies.
“Then please cease acting like one. Your limp is worse today, and you’ve gone quite pale.”
He liked the fact that she paid attention to details about him. He didn’t like that those details made him appear like an invalid.
You are an invalid, you idiot.
She took matters into her own hands, steering him toward an alcove with an Italianate bench. “Sit before you fall down.”
Royal cast an eye down the long stretch of corridor. The hall was currently deserted, but servants or even guests could happen by at any time. Though he and Ainsley were still on the right side of propriety, sitting together in the secluded alcove, half-hidden by heavy brocaded drapes, might slide them over the line. His reputation didn’t matter a tinker’s damn, but hers certainly did.
When her pretty nose twitched, much like a rabbit’s, it made him want to laugh.
“Mr. Kendrick, do you wish to return to the ballroom?” she asked rather tartly.
“God, no. It’s mobbed with buffoons, as you pointed out a few minutes ago.”
“Well, your reluctance to sit suggests that you find my company less than scintillating.”
“An obviously impossible occurrence.”
“Obviously. So why are you still standing?”
“Becauseyou’restill standing. I’m no pattern card of decorum, but I do know that ladies are supposed to sit first.”
She scoffed. “You’re from Scotland. You haven’t the faintest idea how to behave with decorum.”
“You wrong us,Sassenach,” he said, placing a dramatic hand to his heart. “No man on earth is more courtly than a Highlander in the throes of romance.”
