CHAPTER ONE
London, 1820
Lord Trajan Randall looked across at the dowdy, unprepossessing lady he was partnering in the cotillion, and forced a smile as they came together again.
Lady Caroline, only daughter of the Earl of Lacey, had been an attractive enough chit in her first season - almost tempting him into an offer of marriage, he recalled with a shiver - but her debutante glow had long since faded.
‘Enjoying your evening, my lady?’ he asked, wincing at the banality of his question, but utterly at a loss what else to say.
Lady Caroline’s aunt, a formidable lady in a purple turban, had cornered him earlier by the open doors into the garden.
‘Time you danced with my niece, Trajan!’ she had boomed in his ear, with all the crushing familiarity of a matron who had dandled him on her knee as a baby. Her subtlety was equally crushing. ‘You often danced with Caroline during her first season. Five years ago now, of course. And she’s still unmarried!’
Hard to conceive why, the Viscount found himself thinking ironically, eyeing the timid bespectacled creature opposite as the music ended.
‘Indeed, my lord,’ Lady Caroline belatedly replied to his question as she straightened from her curtsey, a slight flush in her cheeks. ‘Very much so.’
Trajan bowed gallantly enough to his partner, but inwardly he was reeling with boredom. Though not possessed of any keen desire for matrimony, he would soon have to make his choice from among the dozen or so eligible young debs making cow-eyes at him from across the room. He was leaving London tonight, and might not be back for a fortnight at least. Yet here he was, dancing one of the last dances of the evening with this unappealing dowd, famous for being marriage-shy.
With such looks, and little conversation, it was a wonder Lady Caroline did not disgrace her fine name by living out her days as an eccentric spinster.
‘May I escort you back to your aunt, my lady?’
And why must the foolish girl wear her hair drawn up in such a severe chignon, topped with those absurd feathers? She looked set to become an ape leader, an unweddable and unbeddable old maid.
Yet her eyes, though marred by spectacles, were a pleasing enough blue, and Trajan seemed to recall that her hair looked to better advantage worn down.
Lady Caroline accepted his proffered arm, then appeared to trip over her own feet, saved from a fall only by his swift grab at her waist.
Clumsy too!
A startled gasp escaped her ladyship as he righted her, still grasping her waist – which was, he could not help registering, alluringly slender.
Hurriedly, before anyone could comment on their closeness, Viscount Randall withdrew his hands. Yet Lady Caroline continued to stare up at him myopically through thick-rimmed spectacles that sat most uglily on an otherwise elegant nose.
‘I’m sorry, my lord,’ she breathed, a flush daubing her cheeks. ‘I lost my balance. You must think me so g ... gauche.’
‘Not at all,’ he demurred, pretending not to have noticed that she was staring at him a little too hard.
Trajan had seen her look at him like that before and was abruptly on his guard. Surely the little nincompoop had not developed some embarrassing tendre for him?
‘Ah – here is your aunt!’ he exclaimed with undisguised relief as they reached the refreshments table. ‘And your father too. A very good evening to you, Lord Lacey.’
‘Lord Randall, how are you?’ The Earl of Lacey shook his hand vigorously. ‘And how’s your mother?’
‘Hopefully well, sir. I am about to find out, since I am invited down to her estates in Kent. By breakfast tomorrow, I should be enjoying the charms of country life.’
‘What, you’re surely not driving down tonight?’
‘The roads are
London, 1820
Lord Trajan Randall looked across at the dowdy, unprepossessing lady he was partnering in the cotillion, and forced a smile as they came together again.
Lady Caroline, only daughter of the Earl of Lacey, had been an attractive enough chit in her first season - almost tempting him into an offer of marriage, he recalled with a shiver - but her debutante glow had long since faded.
‘Enjoying your evening, my lady?’ he asked, wincing at the banality of his question, but utterly at a loss what else to say.
Lady Caroline’s aunt, a formidable lady in a purple turban, had cornered him earlier by the open doors into the garden.
‘Time you danced with my niece, Trajan!’ she had boomed in his ear, with all the crushing familiarity of a matron who had dandled him on her knee as a baby. Her subtlety was equally crushing. ‘You often danced with Caroline during her first season. Five years ago now, of course. And she’s still unmarried!’
Hard to conceive why, the Viscount found himself thinking ironically, eyeing the timid bespectacled creature opposite as the music ended.
‘Indeed, my lord,’ Lady Caroline belatedly replied to his question as she straightened from her curtsey, a slight flush in her cheeks. ‘Very much so.’
Trajan bowed gallantly enough to his partner, but inwardly he was reeling with boredom. Though not possessed of any keen desire for matrimony, he would soon have to make his choice from among the dozen or so eligible young debs making cow-eyes at him from across the room. He was leaving London tonight, and might not be back for a fortnight at least. Yet here he was, dancing one of the last dances of the evening with this unappealing dowd, famous for being marriage-shy.
With such looks, and little conversation, it was a wonder Lady Caroline did not disgrace her fine name by living out her days as an eccentric spinster.
‘May I escort you back to your aunt, my lady?’
And why must the foolish girl wear her hair drawn up in such a severe chignon, topped with those absurd feathers? She looked set to become an ape leader, an unweddable and unbeddable old maid.
Yet her eyes, though marred by spectacles, were a pleasing enough blue, and Trajan seemed to recall that her hair looked to better advantage worn down.
Lady Caroline accepted his proffered arm, then appeared to trip over her own feet, saved from a fall only by his swift grab at her waist.
Clumsy too!
A startled gasp escaped her ladyship as he righted her, still grasping her waist – which was, he could not help registering, alluringly slender.
Hurriedly, before anyone could comment on their closeness, Viscount Randall withdrew his hands. Yet Lady Caroline continued to stare up at him myopically through thick-rimmed spectacles that sat most uglily on an otherwise elegant nose.
‘I’m sorry, my lord,’ she breathed, a flush daubing her cheeks. ‘I lost my balance. You must think me so g ... gauche.’
‘Not at all,’ he demurred, pretending not to have noticed that she was staring at him a little too hard.
Trajan had seen her look at him like that before and was abruptly on his guard. Surely the little nincompoop had not developed some embarrassing tendre for him?
‘Ah – here is your aunt!’ he exclaimed with undisguised relief as they reached the refreshments table. ‘And your father too. A very good evening to you, Lord Lacey.’
‘Lord Randall, how are you?’ The Earl of Lacey shook his hand vigorously. ‘And how’s your mother?’
‘Hopefully well, sir. I am about to find out, since I am invited down to her estates in Kent. By breakfast tomorrow, I should be enjoying the charms of country life.’
‘What, you’re surely not driving down tonight?’
‘The roads are
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