Chapter 1
Fortune’s Folly, Yorkshire–May 1809
Eve Nightingale had never believed that her past would catch up with her. She had run too far
and hidden herself too well to be found. And then she saw Alasdair Rowarth, Duke of Welburn,
in Fortune’s Folly Market Square one morning in spring and knew that everything that she had
striven for was in danger.
Eve had been shopping, browsing amongst the market stalls, taking her time to chat to the sellers
and enjoying the sunshine. The winter had been long and bitter with so much snow that for a
time the village, so high in the Yorkshire dales and fells, had been cut off from the outside world.
Now that spring had finally arrived it had brought an influx of visitors, for Fortune’s Folly was a
spa of some note, not as famous as the local town of Harrogate, but with health-giving mineral
waters that were said to be far less disgusting to drink. And on this May morning the square was
full of townsfolk and visitors taking the air, gossiping and strolling, perusing the goods in the
shop windows, the ladies’ parasols a forest of bright colors against the sun, the gentlemen
elegant in jackets of blue and green superfine. There was a sense of brightness and hope in the
air after such a long and gloomy winter.
Eve had just placed a quart of milk and a piece of creamy Wensleydale cheese in her marketing
basket when she felt a strange prickle that raised the hairs on the back of her neck. It was the
unmistakable sensation that she was being watched. She turned slowly and met the dark gaze of
a gentleman who was standing on the opposite corner of the street.
It was his absolute stillness that attracted her attention first when everyone around him was
moving. That, and the fact that he was looking directly at her with a gaze so focused and intent
that she could not escape the force of their connection. His head was uncovered and in the spring
sunshine his hair gleamed with the colors of fallen leaves, bronze and auburn and dark gold. His
eyes looked watchful, conker brown beneath straight, dark brows. He was very tall with a hard,
handsome face as unyielding as the local stone. It was given even more character by high,
slanting cheekbones and a cleft chin that looked the essence of stubbornness.
Rowarth.
For a moment Eve was utterly unable to accept the evidence of her own eyes. Five years had
passed; five very long, difficult, painful years, since she had seen the Duke of Welburn. When
she had run from him, run from London, she had thought never to see him again. Yet here he
was. He had found her. She, who had never wanted to be found.
For a moment it felt as though her heart had actually stopped before it slammed through her body
again and began to race. He held her eyes with a fierce intensity that captured and trapped her.
For a moment Eve felt stunned, imprisoned by his gaze. He had already started to move toward
her and in that moment of blind panic and fear, all she knew was that she could not face him. Not
now, not yet, perhaps never. Her feelings for him were still too raw even after five years. She had
to run again.
But it was too late. Her shaking fingers slipped on the handle of the basket and it fell from her
grasp, spilling the ham and cheese across the cobbles and sending the milk cascading into the
gutter. An enterprising crow swooped down and snatched the ham away. Eve made a grab for the
basket, her hands trembling as she tried to gather everything together again.
“Allow me.”
Suddenly Rowarth was beside her, his hand on her elbow as he helped her to her feet, his touch
searing her through the material of her sleeve. He picked up the slightly squashed cheese and
handed it politely to her. Their fingers touched. Eve felt heat ripple through her awakening
feelings she had thought long dead. Rowarth was summoning the dairyman and the butcher with
authoritative gestures now to replace the items she had lost. Money changed
Fortune’s Folly, Yorkshire–May 1809
Eve Nightingale had never believed that her past would catch up with her. She had run too far
and hidden herself too well to be found. And then she saw Alasdair Rowarth, Duke of Welburn,
in Fortune’s Folly Market Square one morning in spring and knew that everything that she had
striven for was in danger.
Eve had been shopping, browsing amongst the market stalls, taking her time to chat to the sellers
and enjoying the sunshine. The winter had been long and bitter with so much snow that for a
time the village, so high in the Yorkshire dales and fells, had been cut off from the outside world.
Now that spring had finally arrived it had brought an influx of visitors, for Fortune’s Folly was a
spa of some note, not as famous as the local town of Harrogate, but with health-giving mineral
waters that were said to be far less disgusting to drink. And on this May morning the square was
full of townsfolk and visitors taking the air, gossiping and strolling, perusing the goods in the
shop windows, the ladies’ parasols a forest of bright colors against the sun, the gentlemen
elegant in jackets of blue and green superfine. There was a sense of brightness and hope in the
air after such a long and gloomy winter.
Eve had just placed a quart of milk and a piece of creamy Wensleydale cheese in her marketing
basket when she felt a strange prickle that raised the hairs on the back of her neck. It was the
unmistakable sensation that she was being watched. She turned slowly and met the dark gaze of
a gentleman who was standing on the opposite corner of the street.
It was his absolute stillness that attracted her attention first when everyone around him was
moving. That, and the fact that he was looking directly at her with a gaze so focused and intent
that she could not escape the force of their connection. His head was uncovered and in the spring
sunshine his hair gleamed with the colors of fallen leaves, bronze and auburn and dark gold. His
eyes looked watchful, conker brown beneath straight, dark brows. He was very tall with a hard,
handsome face as unyielding as the local stone. It was given even more character by high,
slanting cheekbones and a cleft chin that looked the essence of stubbornness.
Rowarth.
For a moment Eve was utterly unable to accept the evidence of her own eyes. Five years had
passed; five very long, difficult, painful years, since she had seen the Duke of Welburn. When
she had run from him, run from London, she had thought never to see him again. Yet here he
was. He had found her. She, who had never wanted to be found.
For a moment it felt as though her heart had actually stopped before it slammed through her body
again and began to race. He held her eyes with a fierce intensity that captured and trapped her.
For a moment Eve felt stunned, imprisoned by his gaze. He had already started to move toward
her and in that moment of blind panic and fear, all she knew was that she could not face him. Not
now, not yet, perhaps never. Her feelings for him were still too raw even after five years. She had
to run again.
But it was too late. Her shaking fingers slipped on the handle of the basket and it fell from her
grasp, spilling the ham and cheese across the cobbles and sending the milk cascading into the
gutter. An enterprising crow swooped down and snatched the ham away. Eve made a grab for the
basket, her hands trembling as she tried to gather everything together again.
“Allow me.”
Suddenly Rowarth was beside her, his hand on her elbow as he helped her to her feet, his touch
searing her through the material of her sleeve. He picked up the slightly squashed cheese and
handed it politely to her. Their fingers touched. Eve felt heat ripple through her awakening
feelings she had thought long dead. Rowarth was summoning the dairyman and the butcher with
authoritative gestures now to replace the items she had lost. Money changed
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