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Chapter One
A Rabbit Funeral
London, 1823
George Bernard, most commonly known as The Honorable Viscount Marlow, leaned against a tree in his friend’s town house garden, surveying the crowd of mourners from his vantage point near the back. At the garden’s edge, beside a small, white memorial, his friend the Marquess of Townsend delivered a eulogy for his wife’s deceased pet rabbit. A fully serious eulogy, spoken with great tenderness and not a hint of dry sarcasm.
Lord Townsend, the driest of dry at sarcasm. Lord Townsend, formerly rumored to be heartless.
This was the same Townsend who used to spank the courtesans at Pearl’s for looking at him the wrong way. Lofty, cynical, stick-up-his-arse Townsend, now lovingly eulogizing Bouncer the rabbit before dozens of guests because his wife had cared for the creature as a pet. What had come of the world? What had come of him and his friends’ raucous bachelorhoods? Why were all of them here in Townsend’s back garden paying tribute to a dead rabbit who, incidentally, had been consumed by Lady Townsend’s pet python?
He shook his head, then disguised the movement by jerking his long hair out of his eyes. He was here mourning the rabbit too in this unforeseen new existence. Reckless, dashing, you-mustn’t-marry-him Marlow was standing amongst all the others with his head bowed in respect.
To a rabbit.
Lately consumed by a snake.
He stifled a sigh and shifted his weight to his other foot. Could he leave yet? He liked both Townsend and his wife Jane very much, but if he had to withstand another moment of their cloying affection for one another at this damned rabbit funeral, he might well scale the tree he stood beside and fling himself from its highest bough.
He allowed himself to imagine, as an amusement, his own funeral following hot on the trail of this one, perhaps in this same garden for convenience. Would the ton mourn him more or less than Lady Townsend’s rabbit? Hard to say.
He was shaken from his dreaming by a half-hearted cheer offered up to Bouncer’s memory by his cousin Lord Augustine. Good old August. He could always be counted on to be artless at the most entertaining times. Now people would mingle and say what a good rabbit Bouncer had been, and eat some of the glorious repast set out for guests. They’d sit in the bright spring sun and speak of the Season’s highlights so far, the best balls, the most brilliant matches… If his mother could catch him, she would tell him which young ladies of the first water were still available, should he wish to pay his addresses.
He did not wish to pay his addresses. Ever.
Better to steal away, to seek a hiding place where he could be here but not really be here. Once everyone started mingling, this tree near the back would not be hidden enough. Even here, Rosalind, Townsend’s youngest sister, had found him. She’d caught his gaze three separate times, peering back at him from her spot near the front. Each time their eyes met he could tell she felt caught in a transgression. She’d drop her gaze and turn away, pretending to speak to her mother or her cousin.
Sweet Rosalind, his joy and agony, his flame and burn.
He wasn’t sure when he’d become aware that Rosalind loved him, whether it was before or after he’d developed feelings for her. Why did she idolize him? Who knew? Perhaps she’d been born with some predilection for men with blond hair, or his particular tall, rangy build. It wasn’t his character or anything he’d done for her. He had no redeeming qualities. Not like her.
Marlow had watched Rosalind grow from a honey-haired child to a quiet, shy teenager and now a demure young woman new on the marriage scene. He’d always felt protective of her; they all had, for she had a delicate way about her that inspired protective feelings.
But at some point, his protective instincts had reeled drunkenly sideways into something else, something she must never understand, something she wouldn’t be capable of understanding with her virginal glances and blushes. He could not admit the twisted fantasies he entertained because she was so bright, wholesome, and untouchable, and he so perverse.
He dreamed of stripping away her virginity, certainly, thrusting through her maidenhood and making her cry out in shock and wonder. That was not so awfully bad, but then he dreamed of trapping her in bondage, sometimes rope, sometimes leather, or even manacles and chains. He imagined her crying, begging for freedom as he did things to her body no delicately bred lady would consent to. He pictured her sobbing as he spanked or whipped her unmarked, virgin arse. He imagined the rasp of her breath as he choked her on his—
Mad Marlow. You utter, mad pervert. You’ve earned that name.
He pushed from the tree, turned on his heel and set off across Townsend’s gardens. He didn’t wish to be noticed or drawn back into the chattering group of friends and relatives. He didn’t deserve to be among these good people. While Townsend had been preparing himself to preside over this blasted rabbit funeral, Marlow had spent last night with three whores at Pearl’s, beating one of them and fucking the other two until Madame Pearl herself suggested he go home.
He hadn’t done anything against the rules, hadn’t done anything the girls resisted. He’d only done so much to them for so long, and for the fourth time that week. He and August generally visited Pearl’s on the weekends to enjoy some of the livelier girls together, but now he went on other days alone because he didn’t want his friend to see how far he’d fallen into profligacy and lechery.
“Take your demons and go, Lord Marlow,” Pearl had said to him, pocketing the tip he shamefacedly handed over. “Come back in a day or two.”
Cast out of Pearl’s like a demon from hell, mad Lord Marlow. He’d felt dirty before that ignominious episode, filthy, unfit. He felt even dirtier now, having locked eyes with Rosalind in a beautiful, sunlit garden. That one second of beauty brought dozens of dark fantasies to mind. Binding, crying, trapping, owning, defiling, hurting, wanting… At the bottom of all the filth, he simply wanted her, but he couldn’t have her. Never mind his title or that he cut a fine, tall figure. Never mind that his pale blue eyes marked him out as uniquely handsome among the ton’s eligible bachelors.
When debutantes asked their mamas and papas about dashing Viscount Marlow, they shook their heads. They knew him for what he was—an imposter and wastrel. He fought too much, seduced too many women, frequented too many taverns, and did everything too carelessly for anyone’s peace of mind. He was no more a fine aristocrat than the stray dogs fucking in London’s alleyways. He was as good a marriage prospect as the snake that had swallowed Jane’s pet rabbit whole.
He arrived at Townsend’s greenhouse and entered through the glass-paneled door, then leaned back against it, letting the sudden warmth soothe his tense muscles. The glass enclosure smelled of flowers and loam, of growing things. Of summer following spring. He turned and saw Townsend walk past with Jane and another gentleman, a Cambridge naturalist he’d met earlier. Someone interested in the rabbit-eating snake, no doubt. At least Jane looked happy again.
As they continued past, he saw Rosalind break away from the clusters of funeral guests and drift toward the refreshment tables. He should not stand behind the glass and stare, no, he shouldn’t. But he did. He loved the way she moved, so gracefully, but not in an affected way. Some women of the ton tried to float, tripping from toe to toe and wafting their arms in the air until they looked ridiculous. Rosalind floated without trying.
She wore soft lilac today, a gown nearly matched to the wisteria along the far garden wall. Her full, upswept hair was some shade between gold and mahogany, and her eyes, though he couldn’t see them now, were some shade between blue, silver, and gray. He knew these colors intimately, had committed them to memory for use in his many unwholesome fantasies.
He bit his lip as she trailed her fingers along the table, then skirted around it. Even that seemed sensual, the way she moved her hands and shifted her hips. But fantasies were as far as it could go. He would not, could not, act upon any impulses. She was meant for marriage to the Marquess of Brittingham, something he’d slowly become aware of as he’d heard the man around town, talking about Rosalind’s family as if he’d already married into it. When the Duke and Duchess of Lockridge invited Brittingham and his parents to a series of private dinners, his suspicions were confirmed, although Rosalind seemed oblivious to her impending engagement.
Something seized in his gut when he imagined Brittingham touching her. Safe, kind, boring Brittingham who spoke with calm intelligence and had probably never entertained a perverse urge in his life.
