His Favorite Mistake

Dedication

To my parents, who don’t know, and to Michael, who knows, but doesn’t pry.

And additionally, to anyone who has ever wanted a book dedicated to them. This one’s for you, babe!

Acknowledgements

I would still be nowhere without the incredible support of my girl group, who have, in their attempts to help me with research, forced me to endure such cursed commentary as “Excuse you, Beethoven fucking slaps,” and “Für Elise was a BANGER,” and “Miss me with that Four Seasons bullshit; Vivaldi’s smaller works were better,” and “Rage Over a Lost Penny is Beethoven’s best piece, don’t @ me.”

I love you, you nerdy hipsters.

Prologue

London, England
6 April, 1814

“If your sister has found herself compromised, then that is her concern and none of my own. I’ll not slip my neck into the parson’s noose simply because a foolish young girl thinks me a prime target for matrimony.”
The words, issued in a tone of complete apathy, sent a rush of fury zinging through James’ head. His fingers tightened on his glass of brandy to the point of pain, and he found himself faintly surprised that it hadn’t cracked in his hand.
“Gloriana is with child,” James said, and if looks could have killed, David Kittridge, Earl of Westwood, would have expired on the spot. Not that the man seemed either to notice—or care at all about—James’ antipathy.
“A happy event for her,” Westwood replied, his expression indifferent. “I do hope she recalls who the father is.” The words were snide and layered with suggestive sarcasm, just the sort of blasé response James would have expected from a man like Westwood. Why Gloriana had thrown away her virtue on such a man, he could only guess. But then, many women had likely fallen victim to such a face. The man had the sort of cold, perfect beauty that women seemed to flock to like flies to honey, risking everything for the slim hope of a smile, a dance.
A rendezvous in a secluded parlor, which had resulted in a child.
And Gloriana was just seventeen, too young, too innocent to understand the risks she had been courting. She had cried when she had confessed her condition, bowing her head as if she feared his condemnation, when her circumstances had been none of her fault.
It was all Westwood. Westwood had ruined her, and now the man sat in James’ library, casually sipping his brandy, and declaring he would not marry her.
“Gloriana says you pressed your advantage,” James heard himself say, through a haze of rage. “Ergo, you will take responsibility for your actions. As any gentleman would.”
And Westwood dropped his head back and laughed—laughed! “For God’s sake,” he said at last. “If I wed every woman who claimed I’d besmirched her honor, I’d have half a dozen wives.”
“Were I you, I would think carefully before you insinuate that my sister is a liar,” James gritted out between clenched teeth.
“If the shoe fits,” Westwood said, with a vague gesture, insouciant and unconcerned. “She would not be the first young woman to try to snare a husband through less than honorable means. You’ll forgive me, Your Grace, if I decline to march to that tune. I find such ploys tiresome.” Even in the face of James’ wrath, he appeared bored. The ennui he exhibited only served to fray James’ already overset nerves.
“By God, I should call you out,” James hissed.
“I wouldn’t recommend it,” Westwood responded, very nearly cheerfully. “That would destroy your sister’s reputation. Duels never remain secret for very long, and then where would she be?” He canted his head to the side thoughtfully. “And if you killed me, you’d have to find some other poor sod to bear the burden of taking her to wife. Rather hard to do when you’re forced to flee the country.”
Westwood unwound himself from his seat, a mocking smile clinging to his mouth. “You’ll find someone to do the pretty, I expect. There’s more than a handful of peers with pockets to let, who’d be happy to take a duke’s sister to wife even if she does come with a child of some other man’s get clinging to her skirts.” He gave a light, careless laugh. “If you can manage to bring someone up to scratch quick enough, he might not even know of it.”
Impotent rage coursed through James, bringing him to his feet. “You do not want to make an enemy of me,” he warned. “You will not find it a comfortable position.”
“I’d find being leg-shackled to your sister even less comfortable,” Westwood replied. And then, absently, “I think I’ll absent myself from London for a while,” he said. “God knows society has become tedious of late. Good luck, Rushton. I suppose you’ll need it.” He swilled the last of his brandy and lifted his empty glass in a mocking toast. “To Lady Gloriana Bradford,” he said. “May we next meet when she wears some other poor fool’s name.”
Westwood set down his glass and swept out the door, and James was left with only the echo of his sardonic laughter…and the knowledge that he’d failed to resolve Gloriana’s unenviable situation.