But from the moment she had first set eyes on Arthur Penhurst, she had known in her heart he was meant to be hers. His father was her father’s oldest, dearest chum. Izzy and Arthur had met over country house parties as they grew. She had been twelve years old when Arthur had smoothed a lock of hair from her cheek as they had been climbing a pear tree at Talleyrand Park, and she had fallen in love.
Arthur, two years her senior, had taken longer to arrive at the same conclusion. It had not been until she had reached eighteen that he had begun to notice her as a woman. Even then, it had required more time for him to pursue her as a suitor. They had spent two years in stolen moments and a flurry of exchanged letters while she waited her turn to wed. As the oldest sister, Ellie had married first, securing the Duke of Wycombe as her husband, out of necessity rather than desire. However, the irony of it was that Ellie’s marriage had turned into a love match while Izzy’s love match had turned into nothing more than treachery and a heart that had been dashed to bits.
“Nonsense,” Ellie was saying now, slipping a comforting arm around Izzy’s shoulders. “Of course you can attend the ball. Do you think I enjoy such silly spectacles? Naturally not, but we must all endure that which we do not prefer for the greater good now and then. There is only one way to stop the wagging tongues, and that is to show everyone you are not as devastated by Mr. Penhurst’s jilting as they suppose.”
If only that were true.
“But I am, Ellie.” Her lower lip trembled against the ominous portent of more tears. “I am completely and utterly ruined. I loved him quite desperately. I do not know how I shall ever be happy again.”
To her shame, her voice broke on the last admission. Why continue the pretense that she was not utterly miserable when her sister had seen through her ploy with instant ease? She had not even been beneath Ellie and her husband’s roof for one night—the rest of their family having returned to Buckinghamshire for a brief time so Papa could complete his influence machine and the twins could begin the preparations for their comeout—and she had already shown her hand. This was why she never played at cards.
“You are not ruined at all. You are merely brokenhearted, as to be expected when the man you love jilts you for another woman while you have been planning your wedding,” Ellie corrected firmly. “But there is no better way to move past your hurt than to confront your fears. You will be glad of it in the end, and you will be able to move beyond the damage Mr. Penhurst wrought. One day, you will love again. I promise.”
Never.
Izzy could never, ever love anyone the way she had loved Arthur: fully and completely, as if he were the other half of her which had been missing. But she could not bear to speak those words aloud for fear that she would dissolve into tears once more.
Instead, she swallowed down the lump of desperation rising in her throat. She would attend the ball, but only because Ellie wanted her to.
“Very well,” she relented. “I shall go.”
Lady Isolde Collingwood was completely and utterly soused.
From his place in the shadows of his friend Greymoor’s blue salon, Zachary Barlowe, reluctant new Earl of Anglesey, watched her retreat from the ballroom and knew it without a doubt. She tilted to the left, then stumbled to the right, before tripping on her hem and nearly spilling to the carpets. At the last moment, she righted herself and, with a hiccup and a bubble of laughter that sounded slightly hysterical, crossed the threshold, closing the door behind her.
He suppressed a sigh, not wishing to give away his presence just yet. Or at all, if possible. Watching over drunken innocents was decidedly not one of his proclivities. There was only one damned reason he had attended this cursed waste of his time, and it was because Greymoor’s mother had asked him to do so. Not a soul told the dragon of a woman no. Not even Zachary. Certainly not the marquess, who was hosting this elaborate affair solely for her sake.
True, there had also been the certain presence of Zachary’s preferred companion of the moment, Lady Falstone. Letitia was the lady who was meant to be joining him for a quick, forbidden tryst, not Lady Isolde. She had told him she would meet him here in a quarter hour. Given his ballroom-induced state of ennui, the prospect of her lush lips wrapped around his cock while their fellow revelers sipped champagne and danced the quadrille across the hall had been positively curative. He had not wasted a moment in finding his way here and settling in a corner-dwelling easy chair.
To say the least, the intrusion of Lady Isolde was unwanted. Irritating, in fact. He was already half-hard in anticipation of—
Ah, God. Was that the sound of feminine weeping echoing from the opposite end of the room?
Fucking hell, it was.
With great reluctance, he rose, extracting a handkerchief from his coat as he did so. Although he did his damnedest to maintain a black reputation, he was not entirely heartless. A sobbing woman was no bloody good under any circumstances, and particularly not when an eager lover would be meeting him here for an assignation in approximately ten minutes.
Lady Isolde’s back was to him, and she was too consumed by whatever doldrums were afflicting her to hear his approach. Her ebony hair was twisted into some sort of coil, her shoulders shaking. Her sob was loud and low and keening. This was deuced uncomfortable. Was she the sort of female who went bosky and then turned maudlin? Had she gone mad?
As he reached her, a modicum of remembrance hit him. She had been jilted recently, had she not? By some lesser son who was marrying an American heiress. Ah, yes. He recalled now. The heiress had been present this evening, dripping in gems and holding court as if she were queen.
Gently, he placed a hand on Lady Isolde’s elbow.
She whirled about with a gasp, pressing a hand to her heart. “Good heavens, sir! What are you doing in here? I… I believed myself alone.”
Tears glistened on her cheeks and clumped on her dark lashes. Despite the low glow of a lone lamp, he could discern the pink mottling her otherwise pale throat. Her nose, too, was red.
He offered her the handkerchief. “Perhaps you have need of this, Lady Isolde.”
“I am not…” Her words trailed off as she hiccupped. “Crying.”
Belying her words, another fat tear slipped down her cheek.
“Of course you are not,” he agreed, catching the tear with the scrap of linen himself.
She swatted at his hand as if it were an errant bee, buzzing about her head. “Please l-leave me alone.”
He tucked the damp handkerchief back into his coat. Leaving her alone would not do. Letitia would be here soon. He was still very much looking forward to the wicked promises she had whispered in his ear being fulfilled.
“Shall I fetch your sister?” he offered, trying to be helpful. “Perhaps a discreet exit from this affair is in order.”
“Why should I wish to flee as if I h-have done something wrong?” she asked, listing to her left.
His hands shot out in haste, landing on her waist and keeping her from toppling sideways into a table lined with a marble bust and other bric-a-brac. “Steady, my lady. You appear to have indulged in too much champagne. There is no shame in it; I have partaken more than my fair allotment on many occasions.”
The most recent of which had been the day he had learned that his two elder brothers had both been drowned in the same day, making him the Earl of Anglesey. His drunken stupor had lasted for a full three days.
“I daresay you have, my lord. Your reputation predates you.” She blinked, an adorable expression of befuddlement clouding her features. “Er, precedes you.”
“I am certain it does.”
He paused, struggling to think of what step, if any, he ought to take next.
Likely, he should remove his hands from her person. This was his good friend, the Duke of Wycombe’s, sister-in-law for Christ’s sake. And yet, the warm curves of her beneath his hands felt strangely pleasant.
Dimly, he realized the reason. The pliant contours were unimpeded by boning. Lady Isolde
was not wearing a corset. Scandalous. But then, perhaps that also explained the awkward fitting of her gown, which was a truly unfortunate shade of yellow silk, bedecked by an abundance of daisies and other flora. She looked as if she had wandered into a meadow and rolled about.
“Your reputation,” she said, eyes going wide, punctuating the two words with yet another hiccup. “Yes, that is precisely what I need.”
She needed his reputation?
What the devil was she—
Before he could even complete the thought, Lady Isolde’s lips were on his.
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Author’s Note on Historical Accuracy
Electrical utensils, including frying pans and kettles, were developed by electrical engineer Gustav Binswanger and were on display at the 1891 Crystal Palace Electrical Exhibition. I took some creative license in allowing Elysande to invent her own prototype. The London Society of Electricity mentioned in The Detective Duke, along with the society’s exhibition, were created by me for the purpose of this book, along with the slight shift in timeline. I also derived some inspiration from Katharine, Lady Parsons, who went on to found the Women’s Engineering Society in the early twentieth century.
On fingerprinting: Henry Faulds was a Scottish doctor who wrote a letter to Nature in 1880, suggesting fingerprinting could be used to solve crimes. (The same one Lord Leydon read!) During the 1880s, Faulds attempted to convince Scotland Yard to use his methodology without success. Sir William Herschel also wrote to Nature as a follow up to the letter from Faulds, referencing his own experience with the use of fingerprints since the 1860s. It wasn’t until 1888, however, that fingerprinting started to gain some clout and steam with the work of Sir Francis Galton, who was able to classify fingerprints and prove they did not alter over the course of a person’s lifetime. Soon, using fingerprints to solve crimes became the accepted practice it remains today.
Don’t miss Scarlett’s other romances!
Complete Book List
HISTORICAL ROMANCE
Heart’s Temptation
A Mad Passion (Book One)
Rebel Love (Book Two)
Reckless Need (Book Three)
Sweet Scandal (Book Four)
Restless Rake (Book Five)
Darling Duke (Book Six)
The Night Before Scandal (Book Seven)
Wicked Husbands
Her Errant Earl (Book One)
Her Lovestruck Lord (Book Two)
Her Reformed Rake (Book Three)
Her Deceptive Duke (Book Four)
Her Missing Marquess (Book Five)
Her Virtuous Viscount (Book Six)
League of Dukes
Nobody’s Duke (Book One)
Heartless Duke (Book Two)
Dangerous Duke (Book Three)
Shameless Duke (Book Four)
Scandalous Duke (Book Five)
Fearless Duke (Book Six)
Notorious Ladies of London
Lady Ruthless (Book One)
Lady Wallflower (Book Two)
Lady Reckless (Book Three)
Lady Wicked (Book Four)
Lady Lawless (Book Five)
Lady Brazen (Book 6)
Unexpected Lords
The Detective Duke (Book One)
The Playboy Peer (Book Two)
The Wicked Winters
Wicked in Winter (Book One)
Wedded in Winter (Book Two)
Wanton in Winter (Book Three)
Wishes in Winter (Book 3.5)
Willful in Winter (Book Four)
Wagered in Winter (Book Five)
Wild in Winter (Book Six)
Wooed in Winter (Book Seven)
Winter’s Wallflower (Book Eight)
Winter’s Woman (Book Nine)
Winter’s Whispers (Book Ten)
Winter’s Waltz (Book Eleven)
Winter’s Widow (Book Twelve)
Winter’s Warrior (Book Thirteen)
The Sinful Suttons
Sutton’s Spinster (Book One)
Sutton’s Sins (Book Two)
Sins and Scoundrels
Duke of Depravity
Prince of Persuasion
Marquess of Mayhem
Sarah
Earl of Every Sin
Duke of Debauchery
Second Chance Manor
The Matchmaker and the Marquess by Scarlett Scott
The Angel and the Aristocrat by Merry Farmer
The Scholar and the Scot by Caroline Lee
The Venus and the Viscount by Scarlett Scott
The Buccaneer and the Bastard by Merry Farmer
The Doxy and the Duke by Caroline Lee
Stand-alone Novella
Lord of Pirates
CONTEMPORARY ROMANCE
Love’s Second Chance
Reprieve (Book One)
Perfect Persuasion (Book Two)
Win My Love (Book Three)
Coastal Heat
Loved Up (Book One)
About the Author
USA Today and Amazon bestselling author Scarlett Scott writes steamy Victorian and Regency romance with strong, intelligent heroines and sexy alpha heroes. She lives in Pennsylvania and Maryland with her Canadian husband, adorable identical twins, and one TV-loving dog.
A self-professed literary junkie and nerd, she loves reading anything, but especially romance novels, poetry, and Middle English verse. Catch up with her on her website http://www.scarlettscottauthor.com/. Hearing from readers never fails to make her day.
Scarlett’s complete book list and information about upcoming releases can be found at http://www.scarlettscottauthor.com/.
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