by Erica Ridley
He shoved the letter into his waistcoat pocket and raced to his dressing room. It was considered bad ton to abandon one’s own birthday party, but if Daniel wished for a chance to speak to Rebecca in private, he had to arrive before the others.
There were no other circumstances in which the two could be alone without raising eyebrows. No better opportunity to even be under the same roof. Once the other guests arrived, his chance to make amends would vanish.
He’d already squandered too many opportunities. He couldn’t let it happen again.
Without wasting a single moment, he collected his trunks and his valet and set out for Cornwall. They took hurried meals at humble inns along the way, and stopped at posting-houses only long enough to change horses or grab a few hours’ sleep.
As the wheels of his carriage brought him inexorably closer to Crowmere Castle, all Daniel could think about was Rebecca.
When he’d first met the pretty gray-eyed girl all those years ago, he’d had nothing to offer her. Daniel’s father had been Lady Octavia’s prodigal second son, whom she had vociferously declared unfit for the title. When the viscountcy had dared to pass to seventeen-year-old Daniel, Lady Octavia had been even less pleased with the newest lord.
As angry as he’d been with his grandmother for her constant belittling, young Daniel couldn’t help but seek her approval… or at least enough success to make her eat her words.
He’d thrown himself into the title, the estate, the House of Lords, and spent the next few years proving Lady Octavia wrong. At the expense of all else. He’d been so focused on managing and improving every aspect of the viscountcy, he hadn’t had a moment to spare for so much as a single dance during Rebecca’s first Season. He hadn’t even returned her calls.
Next year, he’d told himself. Next year he’d have everything under control and be able to relax and enjoy life. Next year he’d finally be free to sweep Rebecca off her feet at a midnight waltz, if some blackguard didn’t beat him to it.
But next year never came. Rebecca never set foot in London again. The chance was lost.
He didn’t need her, he’d insisted to his empty heart. They already hadn’t spoken since their falling-out at Crowmere Castle a few years prior. Their romance simply wasn’t meant to be.
Once Daniel had gained his confidence and entered the social whirl, he’d been immediately surrounded by beautiful women. A viscount in want of an heir could have his pick of accomplished young ladies eager to be his bride. Grandmother had even earmarked one or two “healthy chits” whose bloodlines made them especially suited for the role of future viscountess.
None had captured Daniel’s heart. Nor were the young ladies attempting to. They didn’t want him. They wanted the title, the money, the prestige. After all, marital unions were business transactions. The young women fully expected him to be just as dispassionate in choosing the prettiest, wealthiest, most well-connected among them to become his wife. That was how the game was played.
Someday, he knew he would have to make such a selection. But not today. Right now, Daniel wasn’t looking for a wife. He was looking for a friend. One he should never have lost.
A fortnight away from London might be precisely what he needed.
He couldn’t bear to be gone for long—this city lived in his blood; in his very breath. But he could not pass up this chance to right a wrong. He had hurt the one person who saw him as himself. Who had known him and liked him long before he’d inherited a title.
Back when they were just an awkward lad and a pretty girl standing outside a ballroom.
Daniel’s shoulders hunched in shame. The only thing fourteen-year-old Rebecca had ever asked of him was a dance. Because his disapproving grandmother had been in earshot, he had scorned her shy advance with far more vehemence than was merited.
And when his grandmother stepped forward to coldly inform Rebecca in front of all and sundry that a penniless urchin like herself was overreaching her position by daring to speak to the heir presumptive of a viscountcy, a mortified Daniel had said nothing in Rebecca’s defense. At seventeen years of age, he had been desperate for his grandmother’s approval. For anyone’s.
Now he was old enough not to care. He hadn’t spoken to Lady Octavia since his father’s funeral, where she had berated Daniel’s unworthiness to ascend to the title in front of the entire family. The caricaturists had used his humiliation as fodder for weeks.
But they weren’t laughing now. He was exactly what—and who—he was supposed to be. An exemplary viscount. An eligible bachelor. A carefree rake-about-town.
Most nights, he missed just being Daniel.
Chapter 3
J
ust as the last hint of sunlight slithered past the horizon, the rocky, wind-lashed terrain of Cornwall came into view. Daniel straightened his spine. The chill was already seeping through the cracks in the buffeted carriage.
The driver gulped, his gaze uncertain. “Nightfall has arrived, milord. Shall I find a posting-house?”
Daniel shook his head, his skin tingling from the close proximity to Crowmere Castle. “No. Let’s keep going. We’re almost there.”
Even as he said the words, the monstrous castle rose from the darkness, its looming towers an even deeper black than the interminable night enshrouding them.
A familiar prickle danced across his clammy skin as the carriage rattled over the ancient bridge across the long-dry moat, and on through a massive iron gate. The castle looked darker than he remembered. Larger. More menacing.
Rebecca was somewhere inside those walls. He just had to find her.
He dashed from the carriage and up the slick stone steps toward the castle as torrents of rain spilled from the black, thunderous sky.
The horrendous downpour was not only a fitting welcome back to the castle grounds, but the only weather he ever recalled Crowmere Castle having. If the sun happened to shine over the sparse seaside village of Delmouth, the castle would still be buffeted by icy winds and cloaked in shadow.
Ignoring the sheet of rain cascading from the brim of his beaver hat, he reached for the brass doorknocker dangling from the maw of a stone lion.
The door swung open before his fingers even touched the knocker. Yet no one presented himself.
Daniel straightened his spine. No sense dallying. Time to head straight into the mouth of the beast.
Morris, the castle’s longtime butler, strode into the entryway just as Daniel slid his soaked top hat from his head.
No point in asking who had opened the door, given that the butler was only now arriving. Crowmere Castle never had answers. Only a surfeit of questions.
“Lord Stonebury.” The butler smiled. “Right on time. Your chamber has been readied.”
Daniel didn’t smile back. Nor did he know how he could be right on time, when he hadn’t sent word of his impending arrival because even he hadn’t known for certain when he would arrive.
As the butler divested Daniel of his wet outer garments, a quartet of footmen emerged from a darkened corridor without being summoned and marched outside to the waiting carriage.
Daniel eyed the castle’s dark interior with apprehension. If the servants knew he was coming, why the devil couldn’t they light a sconce or two?
“The footmen will bring your trunks to your chamber shortly.” The butler gestured toward the main stone staircase. “A fire awaits you in the hearth.”
Of course it did.
Daniel inclined his head, eager to dry himself before a fire regardless of how or why its warmth awaited him. But a shimmer of white caught his eye.
An apparition had appeared at the top of the stairs. No—not an apparition.
Rebecca.
Her bone-white gown fluttered from one of the castle’s many drafts, giving her haunting silhouette the blurred edges of a ghost. From this distance, the features of her pale face were smudged by shadow. The glossy dark curls he recalled so fondly were invisible against the yawning blackness of the unlit upstairs cor
ridor. His entire body was on edge.
Nervous, he smiled up at her.
There was no way to know if she returned his smile.
He doubted it. The last time he’d seen her at Crowmere Castle, he’d cruelly rejected her in front of witnesses. And the last time she’d been in London…he hadn’t spoken to her at all.
His chest tightened. He was lucky she hadn’t come to the landing solely to toss a bucket of sludge upon his head.
Perhaps she was saving that for later.
“Rebecca?” Because the soaring stairwell had no balustrade, Daniel placed his damp palm against the cold stone wall for balance. The last thing he needed was for wet soles to send him sliding to his death before he could even make his grand apology.
“It’s Miss Bond,” floated the soft, familiar voice from overhead.
“I know,” Daniel called back as he hurried up the rest of the stairs. “Rebecca, it’s me. Daniel.”
“I know,” she echoed as he rounded the final step. Her eyes were dark and luminous in the pale porcelain of her face. “Good evening, Lord Stonebury. I trust Morris has seen to your luggage.”
Ah. Now Daniel understood. He had lost first-naming privileges. And was to be treated with the same distant politesse one might use to welcome a stranger.
He deserved that and more.
“Please,” he said. “You must still call me Daniel. I know I was awful to you, and you have every right to be vexed with me. I admit it. I behaved abominably and am here to apologize. I was foolish and wrong.”
“Were you?” Her expressionless dark eyes gazed right through him. “I’m sure I don’t recall.”
His muscles tightened. Of course she recalled. She had the cleverest mind of anyone he’d ever met. But by pretending she couldn’t remember his crimes, she didn’t have to forgive him. Or acknowledge his heartfelt apology. He forced his fingers to unclench.
Despite the murky shadows of the ill-lit corridor, she was even more beautiful than last he’d seen her. He drank her in. She had been the prettiest of that year’s crop of debutantes during her come-out five years ago, but now she was ravishing.
Girlish cheeks had turned into high cheekbones. A willowy frame had become womanly curves. Innocence had been replaced by mysteriousness. He didn’t know this Rebecca Bond any longer. But oh, how he wanted to. If only they could erase the past.
He yearned to reach for her. Once, she would have welcomed his touch, his embrace.
Tonight, she was just as likely to push him off of the landing.
“I… like your gown.” What the deuce? Daniel was grateful that the darkness hid his wince at such an inane comment. This was not the best start.
He was fortunate she lived so far from London. From his suaveness thus far tonight, she would never believe anyone could consider him a catch.
However, he did like the gown. It was the one she’d been wearing the first time he’d glimpsed her across a crowded street in London. The sight of her had stolen his breath. Then as now. By the time he’d collected himself, she had already gone.
“I remember it,” he said when she didn’t respond. “You wore it during your come-out in London.”
She arched a black eyebrow. “How thoughtful of you to point out the advanced age of my wardrobe. You’re right. This gown is horrifically out of fashion.”
Marvelous. He fought the urge to bury his face in his palms. That wasn’t what he’d meant at all. She had to know he’d intended no insult. Didn’t she? Or was every word from his mouth suspect, given how he’d treated her in the past?
He held out his palm. “Rebec—Miss Bond—”
She crossed her arms. “You must be very tired.”
“Because of the journey here?” He grimaced. Yes. Of course Rebecca would realize how swiftly he’d traveled. The invitations had only just been sent and she was more than capable at figures. “I… It wasn’t too bad. I stopped at posting-houses to sleep.”
Her bland smile didn’t reach her eyes. “That must have been a welcome change. From what the papers indicate, you’re not the sort to do much sleeping at all.”
“I, ah…” His neck heated at the implication. Devil take it. The society papers loved to insinuate hidden scandal any time he danced with or even spoke to a woman of any marital state, but he’d learned to ignore the gossip. What he hadn’t known was that the rumors had spread all the way to South Cornwall.
How could he convince her he wasn’t a callous libertine, if all evidence pointed to the contrary?
He shifted his weight. “One shouldn’t believe everything one reads in the papers.”
“Well, that’s a disappointment.” She leaned back. “I was hoping the rumors had rather undersold the matter.”
He blinked. “You…what?”
“I find myself in need of a consummate rake. Not for dalliance, of course, but for tutelage. I intend to ensnare a husband posthaste.”
“You…what?” he repeated in disbelief.
“Never fear,” she said with a wave of her hand. “I don’t mean you. I’m looking for someone kindhearted, courteous, well-respected. Ideally a quiet Cornish gentleman who appreciates a fine library and the tranquil beauty of an ocean sunrise. Yet I find myself hopelessly out of practice in the art of flirtation… and one cannot think of anyone more accomplished in such matters than you.”
His jaw fell open. She’d managed to skewer his reputation and ask for his help all in the same breath. Just wonderful. The only reason he was remotely suited to the task was because he was wholly unsuitable in every other way. Huzzah. His teeth set.
He had not been kindhearted or courteous to her. His reputation was far from respectable—or quiet. Regardless of how many impassioned speeches he gave in the House of Lords, his flirtations were the sole acts considered newsworthy.
She smiled at him angelically. “Surely you can spare a moment during your brief stay to give a lesson or two to an old friend?”
“You want me to what?” His heart pounded. The very thought made him dizzy. “Lessons?”
“It’s settled then. I’ll see you tomorrow.” She turned and strode deep into the blackness of the corridor with a sway of her hips, pausing only to glance over her shoulder with a murmured, “Sweet dreams.”
He stared after her until he could no longer sense her presence or her wicked smile amongst the dancing shadows.
Lessons. In coquetry. So Rebecca could ensnare a nice gentleman.
He rubbed his face. Fine. If that’s what it took to get her speaking to him again, so be it. In fact, Fate had given him the perfect pretext to win her forgiveness—even if it meant having to help matchmake her to someone else. Someone who wasn’t Daniel.
Besides, she was right about one thing. They were utterly wrong for each other. Always had been. Not that she’d be interested in the role of viscountess anyway, even if he were to make such a foolish offer. He adored the city, the House of Lords, and yes… the nightlife. London was in his blood. Whereas Rebecca preferred country and quiet. And she despised him.
So of course he could help an old friend ensnare some boring rustic in the parson’s trap without any muddy emotions getting in his way and complicating things.
Couldn’t he?
Chapter 4
E
arly the next morning, Rebecca broke her fast alone in her bedchamber out of habit… and to work up her courage to face Daniel in the light of day.
Seeing him last night had been both easier and harder than she had feared. In so many ways. On the one hand, he was Daniel. She had always looked forward to seeing him, for as long as she could remember.
On the other hand, he was also Lord Stonebury. Breaker of hearts. Despoiler of women. Immune to her dubious charms.
This was the irresistible rake all the society papers painted as being willing to slip into the shadows with any female with a heaving bosom. The same disdainful gentlemen whom Rebecca had never even been able to tempt into a single dance, much less one of his famed ravi
shings. Her one-time friend who had become nothing more than a stranger.
It still hurt. Not as much as it had the day he’d humiliated her in front of her family, or the time he’d snubbed her in front of the entire ton, but the pain was still there. Still raw. Still festering.
She hated his good looks and sparkling green eyes. Hated his legions of friends and the ocean of willing women eager to welcome him to their shores. Hated his ability not to notice her pain, or simply not to care. She had meant no more to him than the forgettable Lady A— or Miss B— whom he twirled into a secluded nook for a moment or two before moving on to the next female to throw herself in his path.
This time, Rebecca wouldn’t be one of those women. She had already been one of those women. Already knew what it was like to have her name never again cross his mind. It had perhaps been the most difficult lesson of her life, but at last she had learned it.
Daniel Goodenham was not forever.
He wasn’t even for right now, or for a few days. For all Rebecca knew, he had already completely forgotten their conversation from the night before. The man was unreliable and inconstant and only interested in whatever pleased him at the moment. Everyone knew it. The ton gossiped about it. The society papers reeked of it. And yet every Season, another wave of ladies tried to be the one to change him.
If Rebecca had learned anything over the years, it was that no one could change another person’s mind.
Much less his entire personality.
If and when Daniel decided to take a wife, he’d do so. Until then, no trembling bodice, no big kohl eyes atop a flirtatious painted fan, no passionate waltz beneath the light of the moon could tempt him away from his freedom. Only a fool would try.
Rebecca was practical. Her harried uncle was willing to provide a five hundred pound dowry, which she had no intention of squandering on musicales and opera gowns in the hopes of attracting a marriage proposal from any number of self-important ton gentlemen like Daniel.
The farther she stayed from London, the better. Besides, when fashionable Lord Stonebury did take a bride, she didn’t want to be around to see it.