“So I’ve been told. Father also made it plain he would sequester me with Aunt Philippa for the remainder of my days if I did not marry by the end of the Season.”
Cian opened his mouth, and then closed it again.
Something about her brother’s forlorn expression pricked Mia’s conscience. “Don’t mind me, Cian, I’m still smarting from the scolding Father gave me.”
“Do you know whom he has assembled for your perusal tonight?”
“Oh yes. I have seen the guest list.” Mia struggled to keep her voice light, even though her blood hummed with fury at the men her father was offering for her consideration. “There will be placards on the table before each one: Lord Cranston—octogenarian, drools, mistakes me for one of his seven daughters and is in dire need of an heir and a new roof on his country house in Devon. Viscount Maugham, who is two and twenty, has skin as fair as a young girl’s and a decided partiality for young boys.”
“Mia!”
Cian started so violently he dislodged a stack of books and fumbled to catch them before they slid to the floor. “Who told you such a thing?”
“I am two and thirty, Cian.” She raised her brows. “Tell me, Brother, do I not speak the truth?” Cian remained mute but his bright red face made her smile. “Your countenance is most articulate.” Indeed, Mia could not recall the last time she’d worn such roses on her cheeks. The sultan had used up her blushes years ago.
“You may know such a thing, Mia, but you cannot speak of it in company, and never around Father.”
“I am not in company, Cian, I am with you. If I cannot speak openly with you, who else is there? Cousin Rebecca?”
“Good Lord, no!”
Mia heaved a sigh. “Oh, Cian, as if I would do such a foolish thing.”
“No, no, I don’t suppose you would.” His green eyes were dazed and he stared at the cluttered surface of his desk before looking up. “If you must speak of such matters, you might as well do so with me—provided we are alone. I want you to give me your word you will never do so if anyone else might hear.”
Mia gave him a look of disbelief, instead.
“I am serious, Mia—your word.” Cian’s stern mouth and piercing stare made his resemblance to their father more than a little marked, a comparison she doubted he would appreciate.
“Very well, Cian, I give you my word. Shall we spit on our palms and shake, as we used to do when we were young?”
Cian groaned and lowered his head into both hands.
“I was jesting,” she said, laughing. “I vow I will not speak of such matters unless we are very much alone. Will that serve?”
Rather than a look of relief, two lines of worry grew between his eyes. “Surely not all your suitors are terrible?”
Mia wanted to comfort her brother almost as much as she wanted it for herself. It wasn’t as if her marital requirements were stringent. She didn’t expect love or companionship—far from it. All she wanted was indifference. The less interest her husband showed in her, the easier it would be for her to make plans to escape back to Oran.
Unfortunately, that wasn’t the kind of thing she could share with Cian. Especially given the public embarrassment he’d suffer when she deserted whatever man she did marry. If only she could just disappear without all the bother and fuss of marriages and husbands. But her father had made that impossible by refusing to release anything but pin money until she was wedded. And even if she had enough money to purchase passage back to Oran, the strict watch the duke kept on her made organizing such an escape impossible. The sad truth was she had to marry.
“Mia?”
Mia looked up and gave Cian a reassuring smile, the best she could offer under the circumstances. “In spite of all my complaining, I’m looking forward to tonight’s ball.” The relieved expression that spread across his face at her small lie was gratifying. She slipped her feet into her shoes, tied the ribbons, and stood.
“I will leave you to your studies.” She braved the mountain of books and papers to kiss him on the cheek before turning to leave.
“Save a dance for your little brother,” he called after her.
Mia closed the door and leaned against it. Should she tell Cian her plans? Was it possible she’d misjudged him? After all, he was not happy here, either. He spent most of his days buried in books to avoid the crushing expectations the duke laid upon him. Would he help her?
Mia pushed away from the door, shaking her head at such wishful thoughts. Cian might sympathize with her on matrimonial matters, but he would never understand her desire to return to Oran. Nor would he be happy to learn about the existence of her son. To any member of the Upper Ten Thousand—her own family included—her precious Jibril would be nothing but the half-caste bastard of a heathen savage.
No, finding her way back to her son was a task she must face alone. She could trust no one, not even her brother. The sooner she did as her father ordered and selected a husband, the sooner she could escape this horrible country and return to Jibril.
Mia would make her choice tonight, no matter how poor the options.
Chapter Two
Sayer held out two waistcoats for Adam’s approval.
Adam was about to reject both and order something more suitable for an evening at his club when the Duke of Carlisle’s face flickered through his mind. The aloof peer had acted so happy to see him at White’s, Adam had been dazzled. After all, when was the last time anyone had been thrilled to see his face?
But if the duke’s warm welcome had bemused him, their odd conversation had left Adam intrigued. He was still intrigued a full four days later.
“Damn,” he muttered.
“I beg your pardon, my lord?”
Adam sighed. “The one on the right, Sayer.”
His valet helped him into the white silk waistcoat while Adam engaged in the same internal argument he’d been having since his meeting with the duke on Tuesday. Should he, or should he not, go to the man’s wretched dinner and ball?
The Duke of Carlisle—an older, well-respected peer with whom he’d exchanged fewer than a dozen words in his life—had accosted him with all the bonhomie of a long-lost friend. He’d hardly waited for Adam to remove his hat and gloves before dragging him to a table.
“Ah, Exley, I’d hoped to find you here today. A moment of your time, if you do not mind?”
“It would be a pleasure, Your Grace,” Adam had replied after a second of stunned silence. His lips twitched even now as he recalled the faces of those who’d been lounging around the club that morning. Every eye in the place had been riveted on the fascinating sight of one of the ton’s proudest and most proper members supplicating one of its most notorious and disagreeable—two epithets Adam knew were often applied to him, although never to his face.
The duke had led him to a pair of chairs by the dormant fireplace and waved away a hovering waiter. “I say, Exley, did you receive an invitation to that affair we’re having this Saturday?”
“Affair?”
“Yes, a ball for my daughter.”
Adam blinked and shifted in his chair. “I did not.”
The duke flicked his hand. “No matter. I daresay my scatty cousin, the one who organized the damn thing, didn’t know you were in town.” To his credit, the duke’s pale skin tinted a pale pink at this blatant untruth. The older man would know, along with his “scatty cousin” and every other member of the ton, that Adam rarely left London, even after the Season’s end.
“In any event,” Carlisle had continued, undeterred, “I’m issuing you a personal invitation.”
“I am honored, Your Grace.” And bloody curious, he could have added. After all, few people, and none of them bearing the title “duke,” had been eager to associate with Adam for almost ten years, not since he’d been dubbed the “Murderous Marquess.” Yet another name used exclusively behind Adam’s back.
Carlisle had then leaned closer to Adam, as if he were about to embark on a confidential topic. “You must kno
w Lady Euphemia has been away for some time, eh?”
Adam had been unable to do more than gape at the older man’s casual reference to his daughter’s seventeen-year absence—a subject that had so mesmerized the people of Britain that dozens of savvy newspapermen had made their fortunes feeding the public’s hunger on the subject. Euphemia Marlington had even pushed Boney from people’s minds. For almost six weeks now, one question had dominated the scandal sheets: Just what had the duke’s daughter been up to all these years?
Adam had looked across at one of the few men in England who surely knew the answer to that question and smiled. “I seem to recall hearing something about your daughter’s return.”
His irony had been too subtle for Carlisle. “You haven’t met her yet, eh?”
“We have not crossed paths, Your Grace.” Indeed, it would have been more than a little odd had they done so. Adam did not attend ton functions and he doubted Lady Euphemia frequented gaming hells, men’s clubs, or Adam’s mistress’s pied-à-terre, the places he could usually be found.
“You must make her acquaintance, Exley. She’s marriage-mad like all the rest of her sex, of course.” He’d chuckled, his color deepening. “Now that she’s returned home, she’s keen to be setting up her nursery.”
The duke could not have been more appallingly blatant had he provided Adam with a teasing chart. He’d half feared the older man would go on to offer details of his daughter’s estrus and when her next heat cycle began.
When Adam had failed to comment, the duke had added, “She will make some fortunate man an excellent wife.”
“I daresay the candidates for her hand are flatteringly numerous, Your Grace.”
Carlisle’s smile had faltered under Adam’s cool mockery. “And how is your family, Exley? You have three girls, don’t you?”
It hadn’t been the most subtle way of reminding Adam he had no heir, but it must have been persuasive enough. After all, here he was, dressing for his first ton event in almost a decade.
Adam paused in his ruminations while Sayer helped him into his newest coat, a rather strenuous ordeal that took several minutes and left both men breathing hard by the time they’d finished. He pushed his hair off his forehead and fastened the coat’s silver and onyx buttons while he considered the meaning behind the duke’s invitation.
Carlisle could not have made his intentions any clearer had he shown up at White’s with a stud book, auction block, and gavel. He wanted his daughter married and he wanted it to happen quickly. Adam could understand the man’s urgency; the woman was no spring pullet. But what he could not understand was why the duke wished to marry his only daughter to a man with Adam’s reputation.
Sayer approached him with a tray bearing fobs, pins, rings, watches, and quizzing glasses. Adam slipped on his rather gaudy signet ring—a large ruby in a heavy gold setting—selected the plainest of his silver quizzing glasses, and opted for a single fob bearing a sapphire cabochon. Once he was accoutered, he stood back and studied his reflection in the tri-fold dressing mirror. Three identical men in flawless evening attire looked back at him. All three appeared slightly puzzled and a little annoyed. He frowned. There was still time to change into something else and go to his club.
“Your carriage is ready, my lord,” Sayer informed him, holding out his cloak and hat.
Adam would have sworn his valet, a man who could have taught the Sphinx a thing or two about discretion, was pleased. It didn’t take a genius to imagine the talk flying around the servants’ quarters just now. No doubt they all—even the impassive Sayer—were thrilled by the notion their master was emerging from self-imposed exile and reentering society. After all, how pleasant could it be to work for a man most of London considered a cold-blooded murderer?
They would view this ball as the first step toward rehabilitation. Next he would take a wife and soon he would have a nursery full of children. Children he wouldn’t keep hidden away in the country, as he did his three daughters.
Adam took his hat and gloves from his valet’s hands. “Don’t wait up for me, Sayer.”
He strode through the silent corridor and down a semicircular set of marble stairs, his lips twisting. Tonight would be the social equivalent of death by a thousand cuts. He would spend the entire evening tolerating the calumny of his peers just to make the acquaintance of a woman he had no desire to meet and no intention of marrying—a woman who resembled either an aging matron or an opera dancer, depending on which set of gossips one gave credence to.
Or perhaps she was something even worse? After all, what must be wrong with her if her own father would seek a man like Adam for a son-in-law?
* * *
Mia stared at her reflection as LaValle fussed with her hair. The Frenchwoman was high in the instep, but she was skilled at her job. She’d tamed Mia’s unruly red curls and dressed them in a way that made her appear taller, if only by an inch or two.
If Mia could change one thing about her appearance it would be her height. At just five feet, she had to look up to anyone over the age of ten. She knew her diminutive size was the reason men felt entitled to order her around. She was childlike in size, so men treated her like a child.
She was not, however, dressed like a child. Her gown was a clinging jade-green silk masterpiece, with a single, almost insubstantial, petticoat. The dress would most likely scandalize her father, but Mia had ordered it from the dressmaker of his choosing, so how could he take issue with it? The full-length garment was quite tame when compared to what she’d worn at the sultan’s palace, where she’d spent a good deal of time either naked or near enough. The desert was hot, and cool stone walls only provided so much relief. Frequent dips in the bathing pools helped one stay sane during the sweltering summers.
LaValle fastened the famed Carlisle emeralds around her neck and stepped back. “Voila!”
Mia examined her reflection in the glass, tilting her head from side to side. She had endured endless taunting as a young woman in the sultan’s harem. Even after she’d established her authority, her red hair, small frame, and freckled skin had been subjects of amusement for the dark-eyed, lush-bodied beauties who’d vied for Babba Hassan’s attention. The attractive, polished woman who looked back at Mia in the mirror was a far different person from that terrified, gawky young girl; she looked ... regal.
Just then her cousin Rebecca entered her dressing room. She stopped in the doorway and lifted a gloved hand to her mouth. “Oh Mia, you look perfect—just like a doll.”
The older woman was dressed in a nondescript brownish gray, a color that did not suit any woman alive. Mia sighed. Her cousin was not beautiful, but she had a pretty face and soft gray eyes. In a gown of blue or lavender she would look quite attractive.
“Thank you, Cousin Rebecca. You look lovely, too,” she lied, standing on tiptoe to give her a peck on the cheek.
Rebecca turned pink and patted Mia awkwardly on the arm.
It saddened Mia that her family seemed unwilling—or unable—to express affection. Physical affection had helped her survive in the sultan’s palace. She’d cuddled her son constantly when he was a baby. They’d remained close as Jibril grew up, although he’d drawn the line on public embraces when his half brother Assad had teased him that hugs were for children.
Mia pushed away her longing for her son and offered Rebecca her arm. She smiled up at her tall cousin. “Are you ready?”
* * *
The large drawing room was crowded with auburn-haired relatives and a conspicuous number of single men. Mia was engaged in conversation with the buck-toothed son of a northern earl—a middle-aged man who could not keep his eyes from the bodice of her gown long enough to complete a sentence—when an odd hush fell over the assemblage. She followed the stunned gazes of those around her to a slim, dark-haired man standing beside her father. Mia nudged her brother, who was engaged in a heated discussion with an older man from his philosophical society.
“Cian, who is that?”
“Who
is whom?” he repeated, his mind still on the discussion she had interrupted.
“That man—the one talking with Father.”
Cian’s eyes followed hers and his entire body stiffened. “Good God. How could he?”
“How could who do what?” Mia asked, glancing from her brother’s outraged face to the man everyone was staring at. Unlike the duke, who sported an embroidered green silk waistcoat, the stranger wore not a hint of color. His hair was dark enough to look black and contrasted sharply with his pale skin, adding a sense of the dramatic to his appearance. Mia was too far away to discern the color of his eyes, but could see they were set below shapely, well-defined dark brows. High, sharp cheekbones and a determined jaw framed unsmiling lips.
The duke leaned toward him and spoke. The man merely raised his quizzing glass and surveyed the room as a hawk might sweep a field for rodents. Even from a distance Mia could feel her father’s anger at the other man’s careless dismissal of whatever he’d said. A smile pulled at her lips. Who was this man who treated one of the most powerful peers in England like a nuisance?
She tapped Cian’s arm with her fan. “Who is he?”
“He is Adam de Courtney, the Marquess of Exley.” Cian pushed the words through gritted teeth.
“Why are you staring daggers at him?”
“I am not staring daggers at him.” He turned and stared daggers at Mia instead, his eyes narrowed and his mouth a compressed pink line.
Mia bit back a smile at his almost comical outrage. “Why is every person in this room trying to appear as if they were not staring at him?”
“They are staring because it is unheard of to see him in such an environment.”
“In a house?”
Cian gave her such a withering look Mia couldn’t help laughing.
“No, at a respectable event with decent people. He hasn’t been to a ton function since . . .”
“Yes, since?” Mia prodded.
He gave an impatient shake of his head. “It doesn’t matter. Not for a very long time.” His eyes snapped back to the marquess, who was now saying something to their father. The duke, who had already been frowning, suddenly appeared thunderous.
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