Prologue
London, late March 1808
Lord Rockwell Ware hadn’t seen his older brother look so happy for a long, long time. There must be something to this love disease, but he still didn’t want to catch it.
Wolf and Tiffany had returned from their honeymoon in Cornwall last week. Married life obviously agreed with the Marquess of Wolfarth and his new wife. In fact, Lady Tiffany was glowing tonight, even though he understood how nervous she was about hosting her first ball as the Marchioness of Wolfarth.
The night was going well, with most of the ton present, many no doubt wanting to judge and find Lady Tiffany wanting. How had a bluestocking, poor spinster, captured the attention of the Marquess of Wolfarth, one of England’s most eligible bachelors? That was the question Rockwell knew without a doubt they’d come to find answers to. The answer was simple—she had captured him with love.
That was why, as the second son, Rockwell, hid in the shadows. He was now the only eligible Ware. Most knew he’d accumulated his own fortune from his travels and investments and was now sought after by mothers with young debutantes.
Rockwell would not go there again. He’d loved once, and it had cost his love her life. His wanderlust meant he would never settle down and have a happy family. It wasn’t fair to those involved. He never stayed in one place for too long.
Now, with Wolf happily married, surely an heir would follow shortly, and he’d no longer have the title of ‘spare’ hanging over him. How he hated being known as the spare. He’d always taken his own path in life. Perhaps his need to explore and challenge the world was because he wanted to prove his life was more than simply sitting and waiting for a terrible thing to happen. Being the second son gave him more freedom than Wolf, and deep down inside, he always feared Wolf’s demise might take his freedom away. He’d been more relaxed since his brother’s enemy, the crooked stockjobber, Mr Sprat, and threat was now dead.
Rockwell liked adventure, so he’d taken immense satisfaction in cleaning up Sprat’s crimes. While the newly married couple were in Cornwall, Sprat, the man who had nearly killed Wolf, had been tried and hanged. The saga was over, and he hoped Wolf could get on with his life and put the terrible past behind him. If his brother’s contented, smug smile was anything to go by, he had.
The title of spare was pretty much about to be retired, and Rockwell was celebrating by planning his trip to find the rumored precious, very valuable diamonds.
Not that he needed more money. His investments were producing great returns. His latest in Armley Mills in Leeds had brought in a huge sum. In fact, he’d discussed with the mill owners about investing in a large estate and breeding more Merino sheep. Merino sheep were new to England, and their numbers were low. The mill needed more wool to expand. Stock numbers needed to increase. He’d think about such an investment on his return from . Although he was already a landowner, running an estate was not something he would enjoy. He shook his head. That didn’t sound like something an explorer should consider.
Speaking of hot countries, the heat was unbearable in the ballroom, and he was considering stepping out to the terrace when he heard a feminine laugh. It was Lady Farah, the Duke of Blackstone’s younger sister. Stone to everyone who knew him, because he had about as much emotion in him as a boulder. But Rockwell knew that underneath Stone’s ducal persona there lay a man who was all heart. Or he hoped so.
He searched the crowd and found her with the other ladies of the sisterhood, who surrounded Tiffany. But his eyes saw only Lady Farah.
He loved the sound of her laugh. It was warmhearted and filled with joy. He shook his head to clear an image of Farah standing in his bedchamber a few weeks ago, with his Hessian boot on one long slender leg. Her skirts hiked up to her waist. His sister and Farah had been secretly raiding his wardrobe for clothes for a charity sale, and Farah had decided to try on a Hessian. Never had he witnessed such a tantalizing display. Was that why he couldn’t get her out of his head?
Rumor was, Blackstone was marrying her off to Lord Franklin. That wouldn’t be a happy match. Perhaps he should talk to the man, but there had been no announcement yet. Perhaps Farah had finally gathered the courage to stand up to her brother.
Franklin was as dreary as a cold winter’s day, and shy Farah needed a man who could draw out the real woman. The woman he’d glimpsed when she’d stood in his bedchamber in his boot. Hidden under her shyness was a woman full of bristling passion with a love of life.
He felt sorry for Farah. He’d known her since she was a young girl, a frequent visitor to their home given she was best friends with his two younger sisters. If Blackstone pushed ahead with this match, she would marry a man who didn’t know how to spell “fun”, let alone enjoy life.
As if Lady Farah sensed him watching her, she turned and glided across the floor toward where he hid from the crowd. He couldn’t help the seductive smile that broke over his lips. She was exquisite in a pixie-ghost sort of way.
As usual, she could not look him in the eye. “Good evening, my lord. I hear you’re traveling to Ireland tomorrow to retrieve the money Sprat stole from Lady .”
Sprat had cleverly sent his stolen investment money to an Irish bank, so he was less likely to be caught. “That’s correct. I need to produce the magistrate report and sign some papers at the bank to have the funds transferred back to Wolf.”
Farah nodded thoughtfully. “Do you think it will take long for the funds to be returned?”
Rockwell silently stared at her for a moment. Why was Lady Farah so interested in funds? “It should not take more than a fortnight.”
She bit her lip. “I suppose that’s not too long.” She rubbed her hands together.
“Is there a reason Lady Tiffany may need the funds sooner?”
She shook her head. “No. Not Tiffany,” and before he could ask more, she brushed past him and out into the corridor.
How strange. Why would Farah, of any of the ladies, need funds? Her brother was very prosperous, and she was soon to be married to a wealthy lord.
Before he could give the strange conversation any further thought, Tiffany arrived at his side. “It’s time to come out of the corner and dance with your sister-in-law. Why are men so afraid of marriage?”
“Wolf has shown me there is no need to be afraid of marriage, only of choosing the wrong woman.”
“Well answered, Rockwell. Is there a right woman for you, do you think?”
An image of Farah in his Hessian flashed through his head.
She chuckled. “Oh, I think there might be.” And as they danced, Tiffany ran her eye over the ladies present. Farah was the only one who had not returned to the ballroom yet. Tiffany turned her attention back to Rockwell. “I’ll work out who it is. I’m so happy. I want everyone to find what I have found with Wolf.”
***
Farah barely had time to catch her breath after leaving Rockwell’s side. She had to be quick if her plan was to be instigated tonight. She slipped through the crowd as usual pretty much unnoticed until just her damnable luck a familiar voice cut through the ballroom’s chatter like a blade.
“Sister.” He’d found her as he always did. When out in society, he watched her like a hawk in case she disgraced the Blackstone name. Her brother didn’t know her at all. She was usually scared of her shadow.
But not tonight. She giggled inside because, for once, she would get one up on her brother. Sometimes confrontation produced worse results than stealth.
She turned, her stomach immediately tightening at the sight of her handsome, but overbearing brother approaching, his imposing figure drawing every eye in their vicinity. The Duke of Blackstone moved through the crowd like a force of nature—shoulders squared, chin raised, his very presence demanding deference from all around him. Ladies curtsied as he passed, gentlemen bowed, and conversations died mid-sentence before resuming in hushed, reverent tones.
But it wasn’t just Stone himself that commanded attention tonight. Two exquisite women flanked him; their hands delicately placed upon his arms as if he were some prized stallion they’d captured. Lady Pemberton, a stunning widow with auburn curls and knowing green eyes, simpered up at him from his left, while Miss Ashworth, this season’s diamond with her porcelain complexion and golden ringlets, gazed at him with barely concealed adoration from his right.
“Your Grace,” Farah managed, offering a curtsy that felt wooden under the weight of those penetrating dark eyes—eyes that missed nothing and forgave even less.
Stone’s gaze swept over her, assessing, cataloguing, no doubt noting every detail from her slightly mussed hair to the faint flush still lingering on her cheeks from her brief conversation with Rockwell. Heat crept up her neck as she felt herself shrinking under that intense scrutiny, her confidence evaporating like morning mist. How at only eight and twenty had her brother learned to intimidate, when she could barely look people in the eye.
“You look flushed, Farah. I trust you haven’t been exerting yourself unduly?” His voice carried a particular tone she knew so well—the one that suggested he already knew the answer and was merely testing whether she would lie to him.
“Not at all, Stone. I was simply—”
“Stone, darling,” Lady Pemberton interrupted with a breathy laugh, her fingers tightening possessively on his arm. “You didn’t tell me your sister was such a lovely little thing. So delicate, so… fragile.” The way she said ‘fragile’ made it sound like a flaw rather than a compliment.
Miss Ashworth tittered in agreement. “Indeed, Your Grace. She’s quite the opposite of you, isn’t she? So small and retiring. How sweetly innocent she appears.”
Farah felt her cheeks burn as the two women continued their assessment of her as if she were a piece of porcelain they were considering purchasing. Meanwhile, Stone basked in their attention, his chest puffing slightly with masculine pride at having secured the evening’s two most sought-after beauties.
This was how it always was. Stone commanded the room effortlessly, drew admirers like honey drew flies, while she faded into the background—the duke’s shy, unremarkable sister who could barely string two words together in company. Even now, as several other gentlemen hovered nearby hoping for an introduction to his companions, Stone remained the undisputed center of attention.
“Perhaps you should retire early this evening,” Stone continued, his dark eyes boring into hers. “You look rather overwhelmed by the festivities.”
Overwhelmed by you, more like, she thought rebelliously, though she would never dare voice such insolence aloud. Instead, she found herself nodding meekly, staying in character so she wouldn’t raise his suspicions.
“Oh, but surely the evening is still young!” Lady Pemberton protested, though her gaze never left Stone’s profile. “Besides, I was hoping Your Grace might honor me with another dance. You move with such… authority on the dance floor.”
As the two women continued to vie for Stone’s attention with increasingly bold compliments, Farah felt the familiar suffocating sensation that always accompanied these public displays of her brother’s magnetism. She was invisible next to him, insignificant, just another piece of furniture in his perfectly ordered life.
Soon, nobody could ignore her, and for once her fear fled on the wings of exhilaration. She would make her life her own, and her brother wouldn’t be able to stop her.
The image of herself in Blackstone’s study, speaking her mind about Lord Franklin, with her brother overpowering every concern she’d raised, flashed through her memory. For just a moment, she’d felt like a real person with real opinions—not just an extension of her brother’s will. But as usual, he didn’t listen.
“Actually,” she said quietly, surprised by the firmness in her voice, “I believe I’ll stay a bit longer. I promised Lady Tiffany I would help her until the last guest departs.”
Stone’s eyebrows rose a fraction—the only sign of his surprise at her gentle defiance. “Did you indeed?”
The two women looked between them with barely concealed curiosity, sensing undercurrents they couldn’t quite grasp. Lady Pemberton’s grip on Stone’s arm tightened almost imperceptibly.
“Well then,” Stone said after a moment that stretched like eternity, “I suppose duty must come first.” His tone suggested this was merely a temporary reprieve, not a true victory.
As he turned to escort his admirers toward the card room, Farah caught his parting words: “We shall speak tomorrow, sister. There are matters we must finalize.”
He was still pushing her at Lord Franklin. The promise—or was it a threat? —sent a chill down her spine. She would not marry him. Her brother would have to drag her kicking and screaming down the aisle, and even Blackstone would balk at that.
For the first time in her life, instead of merely dreading their inevitable conversation, she found herself thinking: Let him try to intimidate me. I’m beginning to remember what it feels like to have a spine. She had a plan, and a good one.
Soon, when her plan worked, she thought with sudden fierce determination, she’d be free of all this. Free to make her own choices, free to speak her own mind, free to love whom she chose. One day, she won’t need his permission to simply exist.
The realization both terrified and exhilarated her. Change was coming—she could feel it in her bones like the approach of a storm. And for the first time in her life, she found herself looking forward to the tempest rather than cowering from it.
Before anyone else could stop her, she escaped the ballroom and headed up the stairs.
***
Nearing dawn, Rockwell entered the bedchamber he kept at Wolfarth House. He was too tired to return to his bachelor quarters after Tiffany’s successful ball. He’d told Wolf’s valet, Simpson, not to wait up for him. A man like him was perfectly capable of undressing himself.
He pictured Farah helping him undress. He’d love to undress her and leave her standing naked except for his Hessians. For God’s sake, he had to pull himself together. He wasn’t ready to marry. He had his big expedition through Africa next month. He wouldn’t marry and abruptly go off on a dangerous twelve-month trip. It wouldn’t be fair to his wife. A pity, really, as he suspected Blackstone would have Farah married off by the time he returned, if not before.
Rockwell slid naked between the sheets. He was already hardening, thinking of a naked Farah in his arms, then his head hit the pillow and…something else. In the dim light from the fire, he sat up and turned to look. It was a roll of parchment tied with a pink ribbon. As he picked it up, he could smell a fine scent of roses. Slowly, he undid the ribbon and rolled out the sheet, tilting it towards the firelight to read it.
Safe travels to Ireland. I shall miss you while you are away.
But my dreams are free, and I shall dream of you…
Yours F.
He put the parchment to his nose, closed his eyes, and sniffed. It smelled of the fragrance Farah had worn tonight.
Fancy little mousy Farah sneaking into his room to leave this saucy note on his pillow. What the hell did it mean? He didn’t want to examine too closely why he was so pleased.
It made him not want to leave for Ireland tomorrow. As he stroked his cock, picturing Farah in his room, naked in his bed, he thought it would be the quickest trip to Ireland and back he’d ever made.
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