The Rebel's Promise by Jane Godman

Devilish popular fellow with the ladies, St Anton, Sir Peregrine, himself no slouch in that direction, mused with a touch of envy. The role of star crossed lover did not sit well on those proud shoulders. There were plenty of opportunities for sexual intrigue available to a man with his looks, wealth and title and Sir Peregrine was hopeful – although not entirely convinced – that this would provide the route to Jack’s recovery.
    Rotherham House was an imposing edifice several miles from the centre of town. An astonishing number of coaches rumbled up the sweeping drive towards the flambeaux-lit façade. Jack regarded the scene morosely. Not so long ago this was just the sort of evening in which he would have found unbridled relish. But dancing, drinking, conversing with acquaintances and indulging in mild flirtations – or even amorous assignations – no longer held any charms for him. London had palled almost as soon as he arrived. Would Paris have more to offer? Vienna? Rome? Somehow he doubted it. Who would have thought that the sociable, celebrated Earl of St Anton could reach such a pass as this? The only place he wanted to be was a certain bedchamber in Derbyshire … and only one companion would do for him. Fiend seize her!
    “Do try and look cheerful, old chap,” Sir Peregrine muttered as they emerged from their carriage. “Although I must concede that the inferior wine served by her grace has oft caused me just such a sour expression.”
    The vast, elegant ballroom was already crowded, and it appeared that all the youth and beauty of the English aristocracy had turned out that night in force. Her Grace greeted the new arrivals with pleasure. The presence of two such personable young men could only enhance the success of her evening’s entertainment. After murmuring a greeting and bowing gracefully over her proffered hand, Jack followed in Sir Peregrine’s wake through the scented, powdered throng. Pinpoints of light from the giant chandeliers bounced back off the jewels, shimmering satins and rich tapestry of colour provided by the exquisite attire of the assembly. As they made their way deeper into the fashionable crush, Sir Peregrine paused countless times to greet an acquaintance, and Jack was hailed with delight by several young bucks and by a surprising number of ladies. It would appear, he reflected ruefully, that polite society had already forgiven him his transgressions. Securing them each a glass of wine, Sir Peregrine took up a vantage point against one of the ornate plasterwork columns. He began, in a speculative undertone, to point out the rival merits of various young ladies to his friend. Since his comments were delivered in his inimitable droll, light manner, he succeeded in keeping Jack in a ripple of laughter.
    “Lud,” he remarked, observing the progress of one debutante whose coiffure had reached such alarming proportions that it swayed precariously whenever she moved.
    “Miss Parkinson’s attempts to deflect our attention away from her sad lack of chin would appear to have reached new heights.”
    Jack groaned, “Perry, you are quite, quite shameless,” he informed him. He directed a slight bow in the direction of a pretty matron who had been brazenly ogling him for some minutes.
    “I do my poor best,” his friend informed him blithely, taking the opportunity to secure two more glasses of wine from the tray of a passing footman.
    “Do you not think,” Sir Peregrine enquired, “that Lady Farquahar was ill advised to adorn her décolletage with flowers this evening? There is something about the rose – surely the loveliest of all flowers – which means that only perfection can survive the comparison. Her ladyship’s raddled flesh falls somewhat short, I fear.”
    Jack paused in the act of raising his wine glass to his lips. Sir Peregrine’s words evoked a memory of Rosie – his own perfect rose – so sharp that it stung. In his mind’s eye she was glancing back over her