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AVAILABLE: Wednesday, February 4th
~Editor's Pick~
In 1814, a spy meets a wallflower and falls in love in the middle of a dangerous mission, but finds the chance to heal his broken heart. If Ravenscroft can prevent her from shooting him before he explains what's going on.
Cecilia Ruthven is nothing if not pragmatic, but when she discovers her new husband is a perfect, handsome—and lying— stranger, her patience frays.
With their hearts on the line, and Napoleon on the loose, will they find the courage to trust one another?
Cecilia glanced toward the house, watching the torches on the terrace shiver and dance in the breeze. Light spilled out from the ballroom, and the plaintive refrain of a slower song she didn’t recognize formed a somewhat melancholy frame for the moment. “Goodness, I’m glad I didn’t accept anyone for this set. I haven’t a clue what dance Evie settled on for that music. I’d have had to feign twisting my ankle to escape.” She looked back at her companion with a conspiratorial grin. “Don’t tell Lady Summersby I said so.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it, Lady Cecilia. Your sister’s wrath terrifies me far more than Napoleon. Though I regret not being able to claim a dance. Even one as morose as this.”
“Perhaps another evening? I shall save you the slowest dirges if it helps. At least they have the virtue of letting one converse instead of bouncing around like a fevered rabbit.”
“A … fevered rabbit? A shame you did not take off in search of Lord Byron.”
She laughed, glad the dim light would hide if she blushed. “There’s time yet. My brother’s contemplating dragging me out for another Season. Without Napoleon abroad to distract Tristan and my sister as chaperone, I might have to beg a mad artist for sanctuary.”
He shuffled in place, shifting his weight from one side then back. “If it helps, I share in your struggles. My sisters are pressing me to declare myself in search of a wife. My feet barely crossed English shores when the barrage began.”
She considered Colonel Hartfell’s handsome profile and satin voice. With broad shoulders and enough money to afford his custom shoes and the quality of wool he wore… “I am amazed it’s only your sisters. At Ashforde, you’d be tripping over every eligible girl and her mama within a three-day ride. I hope you are prepared for the army of debutantes likely to assail you once you step into Almacks.”
“Lady Summersby has said the same. Which is how I came to be in the library. Lady Stowe all but shoved her daughter into me moments after I arrived. The poor girl nearly fell over.”
“I should find Miss Stowe later and sing Fitzroy’s praises. They’re of a kind, now I think on it.” She fluttered her fan and caught a whiff of tobacco and vanilla. Is that him? Damn it. Must he be that pretty and smell nice? No wonder Madeline Stowe panicked… “But that does give me an idea, Colonel Hartfell. Do you intend to attend the Season?”
“I hadn’t decided. It may depend on this idea of yours,” he replied in a teasing tone.
“Ah. Well… I couldn’t help thinking that if you’re tripping through a maze of debs, and I’m caught in a tide of redcoats… Perhaps you could help me know which of them are Fitzroys under their ribbons, and I can alert you to anyone who’s an unmusical harridan?” It seemed a silly game, but the prospect of having any ally at all against Tristan’s endless rolls of comrades and Evie’s starry-eyed recitals of titles and pedigrees was too tempting.
He gave her another devastating smile and nodded. “A good strategy, my lady. I’d be a fool to refuse such an accord. How could I resist attendance with a spy in the enemy camp?”
Her eyes widened. He’s probably being charming, and he meant to go all along. But it is flattering. She smiled, feeling the first flutter of excitement about the Season. Hartfell seemed to have a decent head on his shoulders—she’d have to ask Tristan about him later to be sure—but if he remained as frank in his assessments of their peers as he did in this brief discussion, he might well help her find a proper match. “Truly? I … I know it’s a strange idea. But I wouldn’t want to see anyone else make an unhappy match. The world’s far too full of those already.”
“I have heard far stranger ideas.” He slowly stood, managing with more grace than when he’d sat. Turning, he offered his arm again. “Consider me your ally, Lady Cecilia.”
“And you may consider me yours,” she said, taking his arm and trying not to think about how steady he felt. And warm. I bet he’d be quite helpful on a cold carriage ride… Damn it! “I only—”
“Cecilia!” Her sister’s dulcet tones ripped her away from Hartfell’s gorgeous eyes, and she turned reluctantly, keeping her hand on his arm as Evelina swept toward them in a rush of scarlet silk and the soft clicking of her jeweled slippers on the pavers. “There you are! Oh, Your Grace, I’m so sorry to interrupt…”
His what? No. I’d’ve remembered any duke that handsome.
…Wouldn’t I?
