were outré in society’s eyes because of their grand passion for each other, and their outlandish approach to everything in life. It had always made it easier to swallow society’s disdain knowing her parents loved each other, but now? They didn’t even have that.
A sob escaped her.
She darted out of the room, the corridors blurring as she ran down them. Finding her only haven in the house, she threw open the doors to the library. It was achingly obvious her parents were outcasts, not because of her mother’s lineage or their grand passion for each other and life, but because of their grand passion for others .
Grabbing Persuasion from the shelf, she tucked herself against the ladder where she and Caldwell had first met and, with trembling hands, set Caldwell’s sovereign against the first open page and started to reread the book, trying desperately to remind herself that real love and real passion could never be corrupted by anyone or anything. Love was not meant to be shared with the world. It was a secret romantic language between two willing hearts and two willing souls that only needed each other to survive. And one day, she would know of such a love with Caldwell. One day. After all, who else in London would accept her and her family for what it was? No one but Caldwell. And for that, she knew she had to love him in a way no one had ever loved him before.
Almost three years later
The opening of the Season
April 4, 1830 – 2:20 A.M.
St. James’s Square
Ronan Henry Dearborn, the fourth Marquess of Caldwell, shut the entrance door behind him and leaned against it, savoring the blessed silence of his house after countless hours of clattering wheels on uneven roads.
He paused, noting all the candles in the wall sconces were still lit. Pushing away from the door, he puffed out almost every candle, save one. His uncle had promised to keep household expenses to a minimum, but Ronan knew all too well that the man was like a rabbit in a vegetable field. Never to be entirely trusted.
But at least the field remained.
Meaning, the house.
Carefully removing his leather traveling gloves and hat, Ronan pushed away from the door and set both onto the side table in the foyer. He sighed, thankful to have arrived at an hour that forced him to go straight to bed. Having traveled well beyond what he’d originally planned, the time he’d spent with his aunt and her children made him realize how much he missed belonging to a real family. She reminded him so much of his mother. They looked alike. When Aunt Beatrice laughed and her dark eyes lit up, it was like his mother was coming back to visit.
It was like being nine again.
God how he missed those days.
Bolting the door, so the few servants he did have needn’t be bothered with his late arrival, he turned and paused, his gaze falling to the floor before him. A set of large muddy boot prints on the wood floor, leading from where he stood, ascended the main stairwell. Only one person ever sauntered around his house with mud on his boots without bothering to scrape them on the doorstep.
His uncle.
Ronan swiped his face. That mud covering the floor represented his entire life.
Eyeing the smeared large prints, Ronan grudgingly followed the sludge up, up the stairs and into his living quarters. The faded muddy prints disappeared within an open doorway leading into… his bedchamber.
A pair of black leather riding boots had been carelessly removed and left outside the door, toppled onto their sides on one another. The glow from the burning hearth beyond the open door shifted light and shadows across the floor and walls.
“Turn,” a deep male voice commanded from within the confines of Ronan’s bedchamber. “ Glorious . Now don’t move. You wouldn’t want me to miss.” The resounding hard thwack of a riding crop soundly hitting a derriere cracked in the air.
Ronan bit back a riled curse and refrained from punching the air. The son of a bitch had brought a woman
A sob escaped her.
She darted out of the room, the corridors blurring as she ran down them. Finding her only haven in the house, she threw open the doors to the library. It was achingly obvious her parents were outcasts, not because of her mother’s lineage or their grand passion for each other and life, but because of their grand passion for others .
Grabbing Persuasion from the shelf, she tucked herself against the ladder where she and Caldwell had first met and, with trembling hands, set Caldwell’s sovereign against the first open page and started to reread the book, trying desperately to remind herself that real love and real passion could never be corrupted by anyone or anything. Love was not meant to be shared with the world. It was a secret romantic language between two willing hearts and two willing souls that only needed each other to survive. And one day, she would know of such a love with Caldwell. One day. After all, who else in London would accept her and her family for what it was? No one but Caldwell. And for that, she knew she had to love him in a way no one had ever loved him before.
Almost three years later
The opening of the Season
April 4, 1830 – 2:20 A.M.
St. James’s Square
Ronan Henry Dearborn, the fourth Marquess of Caldwell, shut the entrance door behind him and leaned against it, savoring the blessed silence of his house after countless hours of clattering wheels on uneven roads.
He paused, noting all the candles in the wall sconces were still lit. Pushing away from the door, he puffed out almost every candle, save one. His uncle had promised to keep household expenses to a minimum, but Ronan knew all too well that the man was like a rabbit in a vegetable field. Never to be entirely trusted.
But at least the field remained.
Meaning, the house.
Carefully removing his leather traveling gloves and hat, Ronan pushed away from the door and set both onto the side table in the foyer. He sighed, thankful to have arrived at an hour that forced him to go straight to bed. Having traveled well beyond what he’d originally planned, the time he’d spent with his aunt and her children made him realize how much he missed belonging to a real family. She reminded him so much of his mother. They looked alike. When Aunt Beatrice laughed and her dark eyes lit up, it was like his mother was coming back to visit.
It was like being nine again.
God how he missed those days.
Bolting the door, so the few servants he did have needn’t be bothered with his late arrival, he turned and paused, his gaze falling to the floor before him. A set of large muddy boot prints on the wood floor, leading from where he stood, ascended the main stairwell. Only one person ever sauntered around his house with mud on his boots without bothering to scrape them on the doorstep.
His uncle.
Ronan swiped his face. That mud covering the floor represented his entire life.
Eyeing the smeared large prints, Ronan grudgingly followed the sludge up, up the stairs and into his living quarters. The faded muddy prints disappeared within an open doorway leading into… his bedchamber.
A pair of black leather riding boots had been carelessly removed and left outside the door, toppled onto their sides on one another. The glow from the burning hearth beyond the open door shifted light and shadows across the floor and walls.
“Turn,” a deep male voice commanded from within the confines of Ronan’s bedchamber. “ Glorious . Now don’t move. You wouldn’t want me to miss.” The resounding hard thwack of a riding crop soundly hitting a derriere cracked in the air.
Ronan bit back a riled curse and refrained from punching the air. The son of a bitch had brought a woman
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