Chapter One

London, England
20 April, 1814

“You don’t have to do this.”
James Bradford, Duke of Rushton, scowled at the faintly chiding words and cast a resentful glare at Nick. He tossed back the last of his champagne and set the empty flute on a tray carried by a passing maid. “I don’t have to do anything,” he said. “I want to. This is revenge, pure and simple.”
“Revenge is never pure and simple,” Nick replied, touching his shoulder to the wall. His indolent pose reflected his boredom. Neither of them were particularly comfortable at balls, but James’ quarry was rarely found outside of them, and certainly never within the gaming hells they frequented. “I’d be remiss if I didn’t tell you I think you’re making a mistake.”
“You’ve made your opinion quite clear,” James snapped. It wasn’t really Nick with whom he was so furious—but the true target of his rage had fled England for a tour of the continent, and so James was left in a foul temper and few available outlets.
Westwood had already refused to wed Gloriana. If James had called him out, Gloriana’s reputation would be forever tarnished. Instead, Westwood had gone gallivanting off to God alone knew where, while Gloriana’s circumstances were growing increasingly desperate.
“Which one is she?” James asked, dragging his fingers through his tawny hair and attempting to exorcise his face of the fury that he knew had settled upon it.
Nick heaved a long-suffering sigh, rolling his eyes skyward. “Last I saw, she was over there,” he said, canting his head toward the opposite side of the room. “Speaking with a ravishing brunette near the refreshment table. She’s in a blue gown.”
James scoured the crowd, cursing the dancers that whirled by, interrupting his line of sight. But the dance was drawing to an end, the last sweet chords trembling through the air as the music faded. Couples broke apart, seeking their next partners for the next set. As the floor cleared, at last James had a clear view across the ballroom.
A crush of people had descended upon the refreshment table. He saw ladies in gowns of scarlet, emerald, gold, and cream, gentlemen in their elegant starched evening wear. And then, as the musicians struck up their instruments again, the sea of people flowed out like a tide, and he saw her at last.
He had expected a cool blond beauty, the feminine version of her degenerate brother—instead he caught sight of a siren. Her pale blue gown lovingly encased her lush body like seafoam might so grace a mermaid. Her amber hair had been pinned upon her head, but not in the perfect, crisp ringlets that seemed to be favored by young ladies this Season. Instead it was in haphazardly arranged curls that looked as if at any moment they might tumble free and fall in a wild cascade around her. Shining among them were a dozen pearl-tipped pins, like she had coaxed the very stars from the sky to come down and sprinkle themselves upon her head.
Lady Jillian Kittridge, the Earl of Westwood’s sister.