Chapter 1
March 5, 1844. Albury House, Upper Grosvenor Street, London
Lord Frederick Kingsley Montgomery Brampton, seventh Marquess of Albury, walked into his mother’s sitting room in his London house to discover his parent sitting in an armchair, sipping tea and showing no sign whatever of being close to imminent demise.
Not that Frederick had actually expected his mother to be at death’s door, yet every time he responded to one of her vague summonses, which invariably hinted at the onset of a grave decline, only to find her as robust as when he’d last seen her, relief ghosted through him; one day, he knew, the summons would be real.
Today, however, as his mother’s gaze fell on him, she brightened and smiled. “Ah, Frederick—you’ve come. Yes, I know—I’m a sad trial, but I assure you, I was feeling utterly wretched and faint yesterday, quite unable to lift my head. Yet this morning, I awoke, and the faintness had passed.”
“For which I must be thankful, Mama.” His mother was still a handsome woman with her silvery hair confined beneath a lace cap and her tall figure elegantly and fashionably gowned. Frederick bent and kissed her lined cheek, then nodded in greeting to the other occupant of the room, his mother’s longtime companion, Mrs. Emily Weston, who was seated on the chaise beside his mother’s favorite wing chair. “Good morning, Emily. I trust you’re enjoying your customary rosy health.”
That appeared to be the c
ase; Emily’s eyes were bright, her peaches-and-cream complexion all but glowing. Ten years younger than his mother’s fifty-six years, Emily had been the marchioness’s trusted friend and confidante for the past decade and more.
Failing to hide an understanding smile, Emily inclined her head. “Indeed, Frederick, I’m very well.” Emily’s gaze returned to his mother, as if waiting for a shoe to fall.
On following Emily’s gaze, Frederick caught a glint of calculation in his mother’s eyes. That she’d called him up for some purpose from his preferred abode of the marquessate’s principal seat, Brampton Hall in Surrey, wasn’t a surprise. What that purpose was…
He sank into the wing chair on the other side of the hearth, fixed his mother with a weary look, and in a resigned tone, inquired, “What is it this time, Mama?”
His mother blinked her eyes wide. “Whatever do you mean, dear boy?” With barely a pause, she went on, “Tell me, how are things faring at Brampton?”
So, it’s to be like that, is it? Stifling a sigh, he replied with what patience he could muster; his mother would reveal her hand when she was ready and not before. As it happened, he would have returned to town in a week’s time to attend an event; responding to her summons hadn’t truly put him out.
His mother ran through her usual questions regarding the estate, the staff, and the tenants, then angled a look at Emily.
Emily duly caught his gaze. “Are you pursuing any particular musical text at the moment?”
Suppressing a frown, he answered; the question was guaranteed to distract him and pass the time—there were few weeks in the year when he wasn’t either studying or on the trail of some ancient musical text. The history of music—of ancient music in particular—had been his abiding interest since he’d left Eton. Yet Emily being prompted by his mother to ask such a question now, rather than, for instance, in the drawing room before dinner, suggested she was intent on keeping him in the sitting room—presumably because the reason for her summons was about to manifest.
Two minutes later, Fortingale, the butler, appeared and announced, “Lady Eustacia Cavanaugh has called, my lady.” With a bow to Frederick, Fortingale added, “My lord.”
A single glance at his mother’s face was enough to inform Frederick that Lady Eustacia was, indeed, the reason his mother had inveigled him into returning to the capital.
Her eyes lighting as if Lady Eustacia’s arrival was a delightful surprise, his mother declared, “How lovely! Do show her ladyship in, Fortingale.”
Fortingale bowed and withdrew.
Rising in anticipation of the lady’s entrance, Frederick shot his mother a narrow-eyed look. He’d thought she’d given up all attempts at matchmaking years ago. Apparently not, yet if she thought time had eroded his defenses, she was destined to suffer comprehensive disappointment.
Piqued over having been jockeyed into a meeting for which he had absolutely no desire, with his temper stirring, he turned toward the door as Fortingale opened it and ushered in…a vision.
Lady Eustacia Cavanaugh was, without a doubt, the most vibrantly attractive lady Frederick had ever laid eyes on.
With only the most cursory of curious glances his way, she glided forward and curtsied gracefully to his mother. “Lady Philippa. Thank you for receiving me.”
Beaming, his mother held out a hand. “It’s a pleasure to welcome you, my dear.”
Lady Eustacia straightened and clasped his mother’s hand.
With her free hand, his mother waved at him. “You must allow me to present my son, Albury.”
Eyes of a soft periwinkle blue lifted to Frederick’s face. Lady Eustacia’s gaze was open, direct, and surprisingly, devoid of guile.
She carried herself well, with her head held high on a long, slender neck. Her face was heart-shaped, her nose straight, her lips lush and full. Her features were finely drawn, the lines worthy of a master painter, and her pale, porcelain-fine skin with its milk-and-roses complexion was utterly without flaw. She was, at best, of medium height, and her figure was voluptuously curvaceous, yet it was neither her features nor her curves that rendered her so eye-catching. That effect—that jolting impact—was primarily due to her coloring, to the dramatic contrast between her pale complexion and her glossy locks the color of the richest mahogany, those large, soft blue eyes, heavily fringed by sweeping black lashes and set beneath delicately arched dark brows, and the crushed-strawberry delight of her seductively beckoning lips.
Frederick sensed his resistance wavering and promptly strengthened it; the lady might be stunning, but given his mother’s hand in arranging this meeting, Eustacia Cavanaugh had to bode ill for him. More, as his mind refocused on self-preservation, he realized who she was; he invested in syndicates run by Lord Randolph Cavanaugh, and unless Frederick missed his guess, Lady Eustacia had to be Rand’s younger sister.
That meant she was the daughter of a marquess and the half sister of Ryder Cavanaugh, the current Marquess of Raventhorne, and thus belonged to the same rank of the nobility as Frederick himself.
She inclined her head to him and curtsied, sinking to precisely the correct degree. “Lord Albury.”
“Lady Eustacia.” Ingrained good manners had him clasping and bowing over the hand she offered—long, delicate fingers sheathed in soft skin—only to feel a distinct spark of connection, a definite jerk on his sensual chain.
Really?
Everything male in him immediately fixated on her. As she straightened, he saw consciousness flash behind her eyes and a hint of color tinge her cheeks, but then her lashes lowered, and she drew back her hand, and he was forced to let her fingers slide from his.
Intriguing.
Swiftly, he ran his gaze over her; she was fashionably attired in a walking dress of bright cherry red, which made the most of her dramatic coloring yet was distinctly severe in cut and style, almost repressively so. Although he paid scant attention to female fashions, he was fairly sure the current trend for walking dresses wasn’t quite so buttoned up.
“And yes, Frederick”—his mother’s voice drew his attention from whence it had wandered—“I confess that the suspicions you’re harboring are entirely correct.”
He was fairly certain that was the case; Lady Eustacia wore no ring, so was presumably unmarried, and therefore, given her station, let alone her connections, she numbered among the ladies he could not seduce.
His mother rolled on, “Lady Eustacia approached me regarding a matter involving you and music. I requested your return to town so she might put her notion to you directly.”
He stiffened as the words registered, and his resistance roared back to life. He could guess what was coming; had Eustacia been of lesser rank, he would simply have said “No” and walked from the room. But she was Rand’s sister—Ryder’s sister; he had to be polite.
Schooling his expression to one of cool implacability, he refocused on Eustacia Cavanaugh’s arresting face and arched an arrogant, distinctly chilly, intentionally intimidating interrogatory eyebrow.
To his surprise, she regarded him with a directness that would generally be considered overbold, and a frown lurked in the depths of her blue eyes.
Stacie had thought she’d prepared herself for this meeting—that she’d come with her arguments well-rehearsed and perfectly structured to overwhelm the defenses of a reclusive, resistant, recalcitrant, and thoroughly difficult-to-sway nobleman—only to have her concentration fractured by the utterly mundane touch of his fingers closing around hers.
Despite her years of experience within the ton, the resulting flare of sensation—the shock of it rippling over her senses—had been unprecedented and intensely unsettling.
She’d been warned he was handsome, but no one had mentioned how disturbingly attractive he was in the flesh. Sable-brown hair fell in fashionably cropped locks about his well-shaped head, framing a wide forehead, while his clean-shaven face bore the hallmarks of his ancestry—well-set, heavy-lidded eyes beneath strong eyebrows and fringed by thick, dar