CHAPTER ONE:

Endell Street, London

April 12, 1802

          Octavia Hathawood stood frozen, cold rain pummeling her shoulders. 

         The coach with the hateful crest was rumbling closer, drawing for the curb. She’d have given a small fortune, if she had one, for a stand of shrubbery to duck behind, or even a ditch to dive into. But the passengers were already calling out her name.

            Well, she hadn’t been named for a Roman empress for nothing—she straightened her spine instead, and lifted her chin.

            Unfortunately, that movement proved too much for her poor straw bonnet: soaked to mush by the rain, it snapped from its ribbons and slopped down her back like a clump of old porridge. In the next instant, the Castleleigh coach skidded to a halt, and the lacquered wheels sprayed her hem-to-shoulders with thick slimy gobbets of street muck.

            Lovely. The perfect finishing touch to her ensemble.

            Still, she fixed her eyes fiercely on the coach window. If her pitiful attempt at a second Season was about to fail, dooming her and her sisters to starve in the streets, she’d at least meet her fate with dignity.

            “Why, dearest Octavia!” cooed a voice as the coach window-flap was drawn, revealing the brilliant smiles of Daphne Castleleigh and her younger sister Clarissa. Both ladies were garbed, as always, in the very height of fashion. Not to mention that they were perfectly dry. “Such a surprise to find you in Town!” said Daphne. “We’ve all been so terribly worried about you!”

            The urge to grab Daphne’s nose between her knuckles lasted only a moment, and Octavia smiled back with ferocious good cheer. “I assure you, Daphne, I’m quite well. Never better.”

            Just then, something slithered along her scalp—a clump of sodden hair escaped its pins and plopped like a dishrag on her cheek. Blast. Her waterlogged waist-petticoat was tugging ominously at its ties, and the worn side-seams of her bodice felt a bit dodgy. Retreat was in order before anything else collapsed.

            She gave a nod of farewell and turned to walk on.

            “Oh, but this storm!” cried Daphne urgently from the coach. “Are you not in some distress? Why, it appears your lady’s maid’s been entirely washed away!”

            Octavia stopped dead.

            Drat her! Daphne knew the Hathawoods hadn’t been able to afford servants for months. If Octavia walked off now, Daphne would claim this meeting as a triumph. So she pivoted back. “Alas, my poor maid!” she said, blinking against the rain, which—double blast!—was taking on the needle-sting of hail. “When this torrent broke, she was swept down the sewers, not half a mile back. My four footmen and our carriage and snow-white horses right along with her!”

            Daphne gasped, and her fingers touched her throat in an exquisite imitation of shock. “Do you mention sewers, my dear? I see your conversation remains the most...colorful of any lady’s I know.”

            Bile churned in Octavia’s belly. Oh, to be a gladiator, and do battle with an actual sword! “At least, unlike some ladies, I don’t melt at the first touch of a storm. I daresay it might do you some good to walk outdoors, getting rained on with your fellow man.”

            Daphne’s eyes popped wide in horror at the thought of doing anything with a streetful of men. “Why, that’s....” she sputtered, in genuine outrage this time, “You’re simply—You’re utterly...”

            “Brilliant!” boomed another voice inside the coach.

            Octavia jumped. Good Lord—the voice was two octaves lower than Daphne’s.

            The carriage rocked on its wheels, and an enormous gray dog scooted past the window.  Something large and dark and exceedingly broad-shouldered unfolded as the door swung open: a very tall gentleman. So tall that when he straightened completely, his head and shoulders jutted well out into the rain.

            Octavia blinked hard. He had the same gleaming raven hair and striking gray eyes as Daphne and her sisters. Unmistakably a Castleleigh.

            When he took in her ridiculously muck-bespattered state, the stranger’s mouth quirked as if he fought down laughter. Naturally. Another proof of his relation: Castleleighs seemed born with an instinct to mock her.

            “Good day, Miss Hathawood,” he said, his eyes glimmering with most ungentlemanly amusement. He leaned against the carriage doorframe, forcing her to crane her neck to look up at him. “For three months, I’ve sought a way to improve the character of these spoiled girls, but since my valet tells me keelhauling’s not approved of by the ton, I’ve been quite stumped. I’d not hit upon an idea half so clever as a stroll in the rain.”

            She stared, a knot tightening in her throat. Though he dressed like a gentleman, the man’s face was tanned, his hair too long and roughly cut for fashion. Something shrewd and steely glinted behind the laughter in his eyes—he was sizing her up, even as he mocked.

            Dangerous.

            Then she made the mistake of taking a more thorough look at his face, and...Lord! It sent a jolt through her. A purely physical jolt, deep in her belly.

            The Castleleigh girls were famed for their beauty, but...this man was an Adonis. A raven-haired Adonis. Every feature perfect, from his slashing black eyebrows to the sensuous full curve of his mouth. Fast-falling raindrops gleamed on his strong cheekbones and the hard line of his jaw, giving him the look of something carved in marble. A sculpture by Bernini.

            Only golden-tinged, and...and warm. 

            All at once, she realized her own jaw had gone slack. She closed it with an audible clack.

            “Forgive me, Miss Hathawood,” the stranger continued, his voice deep and dark as fine black velvet. “I thought you’d recall we met one Christmastide, when I accompanied my late father to fetch the girls from school.”

            His late father? Her stomach congealed into a cold ball, heavy as her wet clothes. This man must be the Castleleigh girls’ older brother. And none other than the Earl of Atherton himself.

            The head of the whole damnable family.

            “Alas!” the earl pressed his hand to his heart in mock sorrow. “You don’t remember.”

            She offered a deliberately tight smile. “No, my lord. I’m sorry to admit I haven’t the slightest memory of you.” She turned once more to leave.

            In a flash, though, Lord Atherton leapt into the street and into her path, looming head and shoulders above her, a tower of black superfine and crisp white linen. His posture, soldier-straight, spoke of authority, a habit of issuing commands.

            Her instincts bristled, and she stepped quickly back. Dangerous indeed.

            Before she could dart past him, the earl’s right hand shot out to clasp hers—palm to palm, sidelong, as if he were greeting another gentleman. As the heat of his fingers pressed her wet gloves, she realized with a shock that his hand was bare. Her eyes flicked to his in startlement, but he was smiling calmly at her, apparently oblivious to all his breaches of etiquette.

            “David Castleleigh, at your service,” he declared. “Or Atherton, nowadays. And seeing as we’re properly introduced at last, I can no longer leave you standing in this downpour.” He gestured sweepingly at the coach. “Pray let me help you aboard.”

            “What?!” came Daphne Castleleigh’s shriek from inside the carriage. “That is to say...” She cleared her throat lightly. “Miss Hathawood wouldn’t wish her walk spoilt by riding with us. She’s one of those robust country-born girls who adore the wind and rain.”

            The country-born girl couldn’t help but notice Daphne gathering up her peach silk skirts protectively against the velvet seat.

            “Patience, Daphne,” chided the earl. “Miss Hathawood won’t damage your fine ensemble.” With one hand, he reached into the coach, seized his sister’s wrist, and hauled her to her feet. “The rain may do the damage directly. Pray let me help you down.”

            “No!” Octavia and Daphne cried at once.

            Octavia leapt back, palms out to ward him off. “I’m in no need of transport, Lord Atherton! I’m already soaked through. And quite accustomed to walking.” She glanced at Daphne’s equally alarmed face. “While your sister is dry and warm and not used to making her way on foot.”

            “Which is precisely the problem,” Atherton countered. “As you so wisely pointed out a moment ago.” His silvery eyes fixed on her with a most unsettling brilliance.         

            An almost dizzying brilliance, actually.

            The color of his eyes shifted subtly as he watched her, like the storming sky above. She dropped her gaze to escape the effect, but that left her looking at the wondrous curve of his mouth.

            Oh, heavens—he was...he was glorious.

            How diabolically unfair.

            How utterly idiotic of her even to notice. 

            Lord Atherton yanked again on Daphne’s wrist, unbalancing her so she flew to the pavement in a wild flurry of skirts. Somehow, though, Daphne managed to land with her heel grinding into precisely the most painful possible section of Octavia’s toes. 

            Octavia was just in the act of doubling over to grab her injured foot when the earl’s strong hands seized her waist and hoisted her into the carriage. Tossed her, really. Unceremoniously, like a weather-worn portmanteau.

            “There you go!” he said pleasantly, as if he hadn’t just manhandled her. As if she hadn’t just been vehemently refusing his offer of a ride—or, anyhow, refusing it before she got distracted by his blasted glorious physiognomy. “Pray, make yourself comfortable, Miss Hathawood.” He leapt aboard, blocking her only possible means of escape.

            The jolt as the coach moved forward threw her back into Daphne’s empty seat.

Clarissa and the youngest sister, Amelia, glared at her like vipers disturbed in their lair. Her foot still throbbed. Her damp dress had twisted with all the sudden movement, and the wet seams and folds dug at her flesh, binding her like a fishing net.

            Great heavens—had the man really invited her to be comfortable? She wasn’t sure of the precise legal definition, but it dawned on her that she might just have been kidnapped. 

            With several stone of well-muscled, ill-mannered earl between her and freedom.

            That cold, heavy feeling inside her was instantly cleaved through by a good, hot, healthy burst of anger. “You will stop this carriage immediately, sir, and let me down!”

            “Down?” The earl looked quite nonplussed. “You do know it’s pouring rain out there?”

            Streaming droplets from her dress struck the coach’s elegant leather-and-velvet interior with a constant, loud plip-plop. “I had noticed that, yes.”

            “Then why not accept a ride home?”

            At that, a howl came from the sidewalk, where Daphne Castleleigh tromped beside the coach. “A ride home? Atherton, you vile, uncivilized, heartless pirate! You reptile! Let me back inside this instant! Do you know how expensive the silk for this frock was?”

            “Excessively, I’d guess,” answered the earl, leaning out the window—and blocking the exit as effectively as a slab of granite. “You know, Daphne, the whole point of clothing is to shield us from the elements. Next time you might buy some that actually serves the purpose.”

            “Atherton!” Daphne shrieked back. “Have some care for reputation! What if I am seen? Let me back in this instant, and deposit that hussy in the streets where she belongs!”

            “But, my dear,” replied the earl, grinning devilishly, “to which hussy do you refer: Clarissa or Amelia?”

            At that, the two youngest Castleleighs leapt up like spitting cats, spewing remarkably vicious oaths at their brother. 

            All in all, things had been calmer outside in the storm.

            The great shaggy dog, intrigued by the scent of street muck, snuffled up and began lapping at Octavia’s arm, its bulk boxing her even more tightly into the corner. The beast had a pungent smell that would drive any self-respecting lapdog to kill itself for shame. She tried to nudge its snout away with the back of her hand, but that only convinced it she wanted to play. It grabbed a mouthful of her skirts and tugged.

            At that, Lord Atherton’s attention flicked back to her again. He leaned closer, and without warning, slid one large hand between her skirt and the dog’s slobbery maw to pry loose its hold. His knuckles rasped the inside of her knee, pressing hard into her flesh.

            A sizzling jolt raced straight up her thigh, and a hot blush rushed clear to her ears. 

            She jerked her knee away, expecting him to apologize.

            He didn’t. He just grinned at her again. “May I ask what business draws you out on such a day? With no carriage? No umbrella? It’s practically Noah’s Flood out there.” He spoke calmly, as though he hadn’t just taken a rather serious liberty with her person.  

            A liberty that deserved a hard slap across the face. Which he would certainly have received, had the thought of further physical contact not completely paralyzed her arms.

            She did gather her wits enough to shoot him a withering look. “Oh, are we to make polite conversation now? Pardon my ignorance, my lord—etiquette books so rarely address proper conduct during an abduction.”

            He actually laughed at that. “Have I abducted you, then?” His eyes lit roguishly. “How very dashing of me! As for etiquette—alas, I’ve been in the Americas these past two years, and more exotic parts before that. I’ve reverted to something of a barbarian in all that time, I fear.”

            “The Americas? I thought sensible aristocratic wastrels preferred the Continent. Far handier for draining some distant relative’s stores of madeira and cigars, is it not?”

            She’d meant to insult him, but he laughed again. A rich, deep laugh. One which seemed to vibrate clear through her own ribcage. Good gracious—what sort of English gentleman was he, anyway? Approving of walks in the drenching rain, willfully ruining ladies’ expensive dresses, laughing so freely, touching her so freely, and smiling at her, even as she gave him the sharpest edge of her tongue. 

            “Miss Hathawood?” that mouth was saying.

            She had to struggle to locate her voice. “My lord?” Thankfully, the words held a

convincing note of challenge.

            “May I offer my handkerchief? You’re dripping rather copiously all over my carriage.”

            Humiliation swept through her, hot and cold at once. “Thank you, no,” she snapped. “At this point I’m afraid I’d need several bed sheets to get myself dry.”

            “Oh, shameless!” howled Daphne Castleleigh from the sidewalk. “To refer to...bed sheets in a gentleman’s company!” A thump sounded on the side of the carriage—probably the remains of Daphne’s wet reticule. “And you’re shameless to entertain her, Atherton!”

            Her heart contracted sharply. Bed sheets, of all things. Why hadn’t she minded her choice of words? She had to remember her sisters, and her mother, and how fragile their chances already were.

            “What do you say, Miss Hathawood?” asked the earl, his voice oddly soft and perilously seductive. “Are you shameless?”

            A little tremor went through her. Great heavens—what was it about this man that put her half in a trance? His gaze was most disquieting, yet he didn’t seem to be passing judgment. For all the world, he seemed just...curious.

            Or mad, perhaps.

And apparently capable of scrambling her brains as well.

            Words slipped out without first consulting her good judgment. “I don’t know. Since my father died, I’m hardly sure of anything anymore.” Instantly, her cheeks blazed. For heaven’s sake! A foolish thing to say before this audience of vipers—she should have said no, and slapped his face for asking. She felt ready to slap him now. Quite ready.  

            Lord Atherton looked away abruptly, though, a shuttered expression on his face. His fist shot up to rap the ceiling, bringing the coach to a quick halt.

            What now? Having gained such a galling admission from her, was he about to reveal his true Castleleigh stripes, and cast her ignominiously back into the street? Which, of course, was what she’d wanted in the first place. Just without the ignominious part.

            She half-rose before he could demand she leave.

            “Where can we take you, Miss Hathawood?” the earl asked then. “You really must get dry clothes and a cup of hot tea, before your death from cold and damp is on my hands.”

            She blinked in surprise. He wasn’t sending her to the curb? He was concerned for her health? His voice sounded sincere enough, kind even, though his long legs and broad shoulders still barred the path to the door.

            Oh, for pity’s sake. There was no arguing with a madman. And she had no chance of winning a wrestling match against him. Besides, she really was uncomfortably cold, and they were already headed in the right direction. “Dean Street,” she told him firmly, as if daring him to contradict her. “Everly House.”

            Clarissa Castleleigh snorted. Dean Street was not a fashionable address.

            “Well, Daphne,” called Lord Atherton into the street as he unlatched the coach door. “You’d best climb back aboard. We must quicken our pace to get Miss Hathawood home before she perishes of an ague.”

            Octavia risked another glance at the earl’s face, trying to make out his motives. Surely he wasn’t driven by actual compassion, or even common courtesy. She knew his sisters too well to believe that. Just then, however, a scowling, dripping Daphne Castleleigh swooped back inside the coach, cutting off her view. Daphne’s chest heaved from exertion, and the hatred in her eyes could have burned a hole through Octavia’s heart.

            Her motives, at least, were not in question.

            Mercifully, it was but two minutes more to Everly House.

            The moment the carriage stopped, Lord Atherton leapt down again, faster than his footman, and offered her his hand. She meant to ignore him, but the enormous dog scrambled out too, thumping her hard behind the knees. She grabbed the earl’s arm to steady herself, and his other hand caught her at the waist; her free hand clutched his shoulder, barely managing to keep a respectable distance—well, a nearly-respectable distance—between her front and his broad torso. As he brought her to the pavement, the remarkable heat of him passed straight through her wet clothes. 

            All the blood in her body seemed to throb through her chest in one thick, smothering wave. Blushing furiously, she moved to hurry past him, but he grasped her hand.

            “Wait!” he said. “Unless you drop an enchanted golden slipper as you flee, I’ll need some means of contacting you again.”

            She yanked her fingers free. “This is no fairy tale, sir. And I’m no Cinderella. There can be no question of further contact between us.”

            “Why on earth not?”  

            “As you know full well, Lord Atherton, I truly am as far beneath your notice as the girl who sweeps the cinders from your hearth.”

            “Nonsense!” His handsome brow furrowed. “You were a schoolfellow of my sisters! You’re a gentlewoman! Of excellent lineage. My family’s known the Hathawoods for generations.”

            Her heart seemed to expand now, crowding against her lungs. Good Lord, was it possible he really didn’t know? It had been so long since she’d met anyone—anyone—who didn’t know every last sensational detail. His own sisters had made sure of that.

            But of course he did know. Of course he did.

            In a flash, she understood: they hadn’t come upon her by accident today. They’d had some scheme brewing beforehand, some new plan to humiliate her. And she’d let herself be distracted by their feigned squabbling.  

            And...by a set of silver-bright gray eyes, and a sensuous mouth.

            “Please, Miss Hathawood,” the earl was saying. “My sisters chatter day and night of Lady Rockingham’s rout next Saturday, and swear absolutely everyone will attend. I really had no intention of going, but I shall if you’ll be there.”

            So that was to be their trap? The Rockingham Ball? 

            She nearly laughed out loud. She looked down at her dress, the awful sopping wreck of it, splattered with muck and pocked with holes from the dog’s teeth. Her worn, scuffed half-boots fairly screamed her poverty.

            She’d never once been glad of her financial ruin, until this day. With an odd sort of pride, she looked the handsome nobleman straight in the eye. “Forgive me, my lord,” she said, “but I no longer count among ‘everyone.’ Not when the word’s used by members of your set.”

            “Miss Hathawood...”

            “Please, Lord Atherton. You and your sisters know the truth—seeing as their poisoned tongues played such a large part in spreading the story that ruined me.”

            His eyebrows rose. Something seemed to spark in his eyes. “Indeed?”

            “Indeed.” She tipped her chin up at him defiantly. She meant to fix him with an accusing glare, but suddenly, shamefully, for no clear reason at all, hot tears rose, and she dropped her head to hide them.

            And then, even worse, he stretched out one hand, cupped her chin in his broad palm, and raised her face back up. Against her chilled skin, his touch scalded—he might have been formed of solid flame. She averted her eyes, trying to focus instead on his neckcloth, but the soaking rain had rendered it nearly transparent in places, and the warm golden color of his throat showed through.

            Her eyes darted, looking for a harmless place to rest. His broad shoulders? No. Nor his gleaming black hair.

            She settled for a lamppost slightly to his left.  

            What was it about him? Since her father’s death, she had, by sheer force of will, built up a wall of control no one breached. But here David Castleleigh, Earl of Atherton, was doing it. And not with aggression, not with insults, but with a soft look, a touch, a smile.

            All of it fraudulent. All of it poisoned. He was a Castleleigh.

            “I’ll take my own counsel on this matter, madam,” he told her. “And I swear I shall see you again.”

            “Great heaven,” she cried out, wrenching herself loose. “You are...a horrid man!” She ran from him then, up the steps to where, thankfully, Frye the butler already held the door open for her.

            The earl called after her, laughter in his voice. “Horrid I may be, but as you’ll learn, I’m also a most persistent man!”

            Without looking back, she flew into the foyer, pulling at her wet gloves, which clung to her fingers as if deliberately defying her. Her arms shuddered violently. She was thankful when Frye took her elbow and led her towards the parlor fire.

            Even safe indoors, she could hear Lord Atherton calling from the street: “You shall see me again!”

            Moments later, hooves clattered and splashed as the coach pulled away, no doubt towards a far more fashionable part of town—where the earl and his elegant sisters could laugh as long and loudly as they liked at her...and her wretched family.

            The shuddering in her arms spread downward into her legs.

            Once the Castleleigh sisters got to work, which they would the moment their evening clothes were on, London would be abuzz with the tale of Octavia Hathawood’s latest state of degradation. Her family’s feeble efforts to regain the good graces of the haut ton would be doomed once and for all.

            Once and for all.

            She tried not to let the weight of that thought drive her to her knees.