Dedication
To my parents, who don’t know, and to Michael, who knows, but doesn’t pry.
And additionally, to anyone who has ever wanted a book dedicated to them. This one’s for you, babe!
Acknowledgements
I would still be nowhere without the incredible support of my girl group, who have, in their attempts to help me with research, forced me to endure such cursed commentary as “Excuse you, Beethoven fucking slaps,” and “Für Elise was a BANGER,” and “Miss me with that Four Seasons bullshit; Vivaldi’s smaller works were better,” and “Rage Over a Lost Penny is Beethoven’s best piece, don’t @ me.”
I love you, you nerdy hipsters.
Prologue
London, England
6 April, 1814
“If your sister has found herself compromised, then that is her concern and none of my own. I’ll not slip my neck into the parson’s noose simply because a foolish young girl thinks me a prime target for matrimony.”
The words, issued in a tone of complete apathy, sent a rush of fury zinging through James’ head. His fingers tightened on his glass of brandy to the point of pain, and he found himself faintly surprised that it hadn’t cracked in his hand.
“Gloriana is with child,” James said, and if looks could have killed, David Kittridge, Earl of Westwood, would have expired on the spot. Not that the man seemed either to notice—or care at all about—James’ antipathy.
“A happy event for her,” Westwood replied, his expression indifferent. “I do hope she recalls who the father is.” The words were snide and layered with suggestive sarcasm, just the sort of blasé response James would have expected from a man like Westwood. Why Gloriana had thrown away her virtue on such a man, he could only guess. But then, many women had likely fallen victim to such a face. The man had the sort of cold, perfect beauty that women seemed to flock to like flies to honey, risking everything for the slim hope of a smile, a dance.
A rendezvous in a secluded parlor, which had resulted in a child.
And Gloriana was just seventeen, too young, too innocent to understand the risks she had been courting. She had cried when she had confessed her condition, bowing her head as if she feared his condemnation, when her circumstances had been none of her fault.
It was all Westwood. Westwood had ruined her, and now the man sat in James’ library, casually sipping his brandy, and declaring he would not marry her.
“Gloriana says you pressed your advantage,” James heard himself say, through a haze of rage. “Ergo, you will take responsibility for your actions. As any gentleman would.”
And Westwood dropped his head back and laughed—laughed! “For God’s sake,” he said at last. “If I wed every woman who claimed I’d besmirched her honor, I’d have half a dozen wives.”
“Were I you, I would think carefully before you insinuate that my sister is a liar,” James gritted out between clenched teeth.
“If the shoe fits,” Westwood said, with a vague gesture, insouciant and unconcerned. “She would not be the first young woman to try to snare a husband through less than honorable means. You’ll forgive me, Your Grace, if I decline to march to that tune. I find such ploys tiresome.” Even in the face of James’ wrath, he appeared bored. The ennui he exhibited only served to fray James’ already overset nerves.
“By God, I should call you out,” James hissed.
“I wouldn’t recommend it,” Westwood responded, very nearly cheerfully. “That would destroy your sister’s reputation. Duels never remain secret for very long, and then where would she be?” He canted his head to the side thoughtfully. “And if you killed me, you’d have to find some other poor sod to bear the burden of taking her to wife. Rather hard to do when you’re forced to flee the country.”
Westwood unwound himself from his seat, a mocking smile clinging to his mouth. “You’ll find someone to do the pretty, I expect. There’s more than a handful of peers with pockets to let, who’d be happy to take a duke’s sister to wife even if she does come with a child of some other man’s get clinging to her skirts.” He gave a light, careless laugh. “If you can manage to bring someone up to scratch quick enough, he might not even know of it.”
Impotent rage coursed through James, bringing him to his feet. “You do not want to make an enemy of me,” he warned. “You will not find it a comfortable position.”
“I’d find being leg-shackled to your sister even less comfortable,” Westwood replied. And then, absently, “I think I’ll absent myself from London for a while,” he said. “God knows society has become tedious of late. Good luck, Rushton. I suppose you’ll need it.” He swilled the last of his brandy and lifted his empty glass in a mocking toast. “To Lady Gloriana Bradford,” he said. “May we next meet when she wears some other poor fool’s name.”
Westwood set down his glass and swept out the door, and James was left with only the echo of his sardonic laughter…and the knowledge that he’d failed to resolve Gloriana’s unenviable situation.
Chapter One
London, England
20 April, 1814
“You don’t have to do this.”
James Bradford, Duke of Rushton, scowled at the faintly chiding words and cast a resentful glare at Nick. He tossed back the last of his champagne and set the empty flute on a tray carried by a passing maid. “I don’t have to do anything,” he said. “I want to. This is revenge, pure and simple.”
“Revenge is never pure and simple,” Nick replied, touching his shoulder to the wall. His indolent pose reflected his boredom. Neither of them were particularly comfortable at balls, but James’ quarry was rarely found outside of them, and certainly never within the gaming hells they frequented. “I’d be remiss if I didn’t tell you I think you’re making a mistake.”
“You’ve made your opinion quite clear,” James snapped. It wasn’t really Nick with whom he was so furious—but the true target of his rage had fled England for a tour of the continent, and so James was left in a foul temper and few available outlets.
Westwood had already refused to wed Gloriana. If James had called him out, Gloriana’s reputation would be forever tarnished. Instead, Westwood had gone gallivanting off to God alone knew where, while Gloriana’s circumstances were growing increasingly desperate.
“Which one is she?” James asked, dragging his fingers through his tawny hair and attempting to exorcise his face of the fury that he knew had settled upon it.
Nick heaved a long-suffering sigh, rolling his eyes skyward. “Last I saw, she was over there,” he said, canting his head toward the opposite side of the room. “Speaking with a ravishing brunette near the refreshment table. She’s in a blue gown.”
James scoured the crowd, cursing the dancers that whirled by, interrupting his line of sight. But the dance was drawing to an end, the last sweet chords trembling through the air as the music faded. Couples broke apart, seeking their next partners for the next set. As the floor cleared, at last James had a clear view across the ballroom.
A crush of people had descended upon the refreshment table. He saw ladies in gowns of scarlet, emerald, gold, and cream, gentlemen in their elegant starched evening wear. And then, as the musicians struck up their instruments again, the sea of people flowed out like a tide, and he saw her at last.
He had expected a cool blond beauty, the feminine version of her degenerate brother—instead he caught sight of a siren. Her pale blue gown lovingly encased her lush body like seafoam might so grace a mermaid. Her amber hair had been pinned upon her head, but not in the perfect, crisp ringlets that seemed to be favored by young ladies this Season. Instead it was in haphazardly arranged curls that looked as if at any moment they might tumble free and fall in a wild cascade around her. Shin
ing among them were a dozen pearl-tipped pins, like she had coaxed the very stars from the sky to come down and sprinkle themselves upon her head.
Lady Jillian Kittridge, the Earl of Westwood’s sister. A woman like that should have been snapped up at once. She was no silly young debutante on her first Season; he knew she had to be at least twenty. That she was yet unmarried was almost a travesty. Almost. At least it would be for her—if she had been married, she would be safe.
Instead she was swiftly approaching disaster, and she didn’t even know it. James fully intended to lead her to the precipice of it, take her to the very edge of that great yawning darkness, and shove her over. And he would not suffer a single pang of conscience over it. It would be right. Fair. An eye for an eye.
A sister’s honor for a sister’s honor.
Westwood had brought him to this pass. Westwood alone would be responsible for Lady Jillian’s downfall. And James would give him just the same answer that Westwood had given him just two weeks earlier. Not a chance in hell. Lady Jillian could go to the devil right alongside her debauched brother.
“James,” Nick sighed beneath his breath. “She doesn’t deserve this. Westwood might, but Lady Jillian is innocent.”
“Not for long.” Not if he had anything to do with it. “Spare me your recriminations, Nick. Moral superiority doesn’t suit you.”
Nick slanted him a sharp look. “I’ve never claimed to be a candidate for sainthood,” he said, tugging at his dark hair as he often did when he was anxious. “God knows I’ve accumulated sins enough for any ten men. But I have never intentionally hurt someone who has not trespassed against me. I have never harmed an innocent.” He shrugged his shoulders as if his coat had become too tight, his expression guarded.
Nick had been James’ closest friend for years and years. He knew Nick disapproved, but he had already set his course and he would not be swayed from it. “Will this make enemies of us?” he asked, his tone casual.
Nick hesitated, and James felt the shock of that straight down to his boots. But at last Nick said, “You’ve been my friend for too many years for me to abandon you now. I suppose I’m hoping that you’ll see reason before this goes past a harmless flirtation.” He shouldered away from the wall, a wry smile sliding across his face. “Perhaps I’ve got more faith in you than you do.”
Whatever faith Nick had was going to be tested to its limit. “I’m going,” James said. “Wish me luck.”
“Hell, no.” Nick replied. “I’m hoping you’ll fail. One of us has got to have some sense.” He scratched at the back of his neck and averted his eyes. “Just go,” he said. “Before I feel moved to lecturing.”
As close to a blessing as he was likely to get. James pushed away from the wall, skirting the throngs of people at the edges of the dance floor, winding his way through the crowd toward the refreshment table. Lady Jillian was not dancing, it seemed. She remained by the refreshment table even as the musicians soared into the opening strains of the next song, engaged in conversation with the ravishing brunette that Nick had admired, whom James recognized as Eleanora Chickering, Lady Ravenhurst.
Next to Lady Ravenhurst, Lady Jillian looked that much more vivid. Her skin was not the delicate pallor he had come to expect amongst the ladies of London, the kind that put him in mind of a patient in a sickbed. She looked bright and sun-kissed, and a scattering of freckles across her cheeks suggested that she spent a good deal of her time out of doors and very little time rubbing bleaching cream over her face to even out her complexion. She was snickering over something as he made his approach, a gentle little hum of satisfaction rising in her throat, dimples carved into her sweetly curved cheeks.
Neither she nor Lady Eleanora paid him any mind, although he was surely well within their realm of sight. Instead they continued to chat amiably as if the world did not exist beyond their pleasant conversation.
He sidled closer.
They continued talking.
He cleared his throat. At last a response; two sets of eyes dragged toward him, both just a bit surprised, as if they truly had forgotten that they were in a crowded ballroom. Lady Jillian’s eyes were a startling green, a peculiar shade just a touch darker than new spring grass. He had the sense that she was not looking at him so much as looking into him. Disconcerting, to say the least.
“I do beg your pardon,” she said, casting a careless smile at him. And she seized Lady Ravenhurst by the arm and shuffled the both of them out of the way.
She thought they were blocking his access to the refreshment table, he realized. He found himself almost offended—he knew without modesty that he was handsome, that ladies sighed over his golden good looks. He was young, rich, and titled; a prize which any marriage-minded lady ought to have sought out.
She ought to have been marriage-minded. She, a woman well out of her first Season, without a husband to show for her efforts. Instead she had dismissed him and disregarded him without a second glance.
“Jilly,” Lady Ravenhurst said in a tone of sly amusement, when James failed to proceed on to the refreshment table. “I do believe His Grace is angling for an introduction.”
“Hm?” Lady Jillian’s head swiveled toward him once again, bewildered. James wondered that she looked so disconcerted by his continued presence. Perhaps he could not frequently be found within the confines of a ballroom, but surely she was aware of him—any woman of marriageable age ought to have been familiar with the Season’s available bachelors. There were only two dukes to be had this year, and one of them was a gouty old gentleman of some fifty years. It seemed beyond comprehension that she would not know him on sight. Someone must have pointed him out to her.
She said nothing, however, only stared in blank consideration as if waiting for him to address her.
Lady Ravenhurst cleared her throat. “Your Grace, may I present Lady Jillian Kittridge? Lady Jillian, His Grace, the Duke of Rushton.”
As if acting on instinct, Lady Jillian dipped a curtsey. “Your Grace,” she said. She had a lovely, clear voice, absent of the high, ingratiating inflection he had come to expect of the ladies of the Ton.
“Lady Jillian,” he said, “I wonder if I might request a dance.”
“No,” she replied promptly.
He felt his brows lift in surprise. “No?”
“That is, no, thank you, Your Grace,” she amended, and he watched a light splash of color tinge her cheeks. “It is kind of you to ask, but Eleanora has torn the ribbon of her slipper and I have decided to keep her company rather than dancing.” She linked her fingers before her.
Lady Ravenhurst’s dark eyes sparkled with merriment. “Oh, do go on, Jilly. You needn’t dance attendance upon me all evening.”
Jilly. It suited her, James thought. Pleasant and warm. It seemed impossible to say without smiling. He wondered if she would balk if he called her that, if he snatched that small bit of familiarity and made it his own without her leave.
Still she hesitated. “I cannot accept such a request without my chaperone’s approval,” she said.
Lady Eleanora gave a trill of laughter. “Your aunt will pardon you,” she said. “She’d never thumb her nose at a duke. You know that as well as I do.” She made a shooing motion with her hands. “Go, Jilly. My slipper will still be broken when you return.”
James grabbed for Lady Jillian’s hand before she could argue, pulling her inexorably toward the dance floor, ignoring the small gasp she gave.
“Your Grace,” she said, her voice faintly shocked, “the dance has already started. We must wait for the next set.”
The next set was a minuet, and would allow him little time to converse with her. The waltz already underway would provide far more opportunity for conversation. How else was he to pique her interest?
“We’ll simply slip in with the rest of them,” he said, nudging aside Lord Worthington, who had inadvertently blocked their path. The man mumbled a curse beneath his breath, looking sulky as James swept past him, and he thought he heard
a muffled flutter of laughter from Lady Jillian. When he peeked back, however, her face was placid, looking remarkably unruffled for a woman who had just been dragged across the room.
“Your Grace, this is highly irregular,” she said, but he fancied there was a hint of a smile lurking at the corners of her mouth. Perhaps she had not been pleased with his high-handed commandeering of her company, but at the very least he had amused her.
He pulled her as close as he dared, settling his fingers upon her waist. When the next couple flew by on the strains of the music, he swept Lady Jillian onto the floor and into the rhythm of the dance.
Despite her earlier reticence, she was a graceful dancer. She let him lead her through the turns without treading upon his feet—a real concern with some of the ladies present. Instead she matched his stride with an unexpected elegance, as if she had been fashioned to fit him.
“You must forgive me,” he said, favoring her with his most winning smile. “I knew I had to dance with you the moment I saw you.”
He had expected a flush of pleasure, perhaps a shy smile or a triumphant gleam in her eyes—he was certainly a prize for any marriage-minded young lady. The insinuation that she had won him without effort ought to have pleased her. Instead she frowned, her brows knitting in confusion.
“I wonder that you spared no thought for my wishes, Your Grace,” she chided.
James felt his smile slipping, surprised by her terse reply. He mustered all his charm and tried again. “A woman of your rare beauty ought to be flying across the dance floor, not stuck on the sidelines.”
“I have never known beauty to be a prerequisite for dancing,” she said, a touch of reproach coloring her voice. “I was happy enough to chat with Nora, I assure you.”
Blast! Why couldn’t the damned woman simply be flattered? She ought to have fallen into his hands like a ripe peach. At her age, unmarried—and she had the temerity to chide him for deigning to show interest in her!
His Favorite Mistake Page 1