Reese was desperate to speak with Miss Kendall, however, and that was the reason he was currently peering over a bush beneath a window, peeking into the ballroom like a common criminal. At Reese’s behest, Gordon had made some discreet inquiries among the staff at her family’s residence and determined that Miss Kendall would likely attend the Rufflebum ball. There were no guarantees, of course, but it wasn’t as though Reese’s calendar were full.

The one thing he had plenty of—an endless supply, really—was waking hours. And therein lay the problem.

The last time he’d slept more than a couple of hours was five nights ago—on the evening he met Miss Kendall. He’d woken early the next morning feeling more rested than he had in ages. Almost human.

If she’d been able to help him sleep once, surely she could do it again.

He craned his neck above the sill and looked through the mullioned windows into the ballroom—a world so foreign and mysterious to him that it might as well have been two continents away. He was the second born, and while he’d attended a ball or two as a young buck, he’d eagerly traded in his formal wear for an officer’s uniform. He’d given up the opera, theater, and men’s clubs for rifles, fighting, and battlefields—and hadn’t regretted it for a single moment.

But then, three months ago, the unthinkable had happened. Edmund, the older brother he’d worshipped, had died.

Reese had no choice but to return home. But part of him still bled in the trenches, still heard the moans of the fallen all around him. He could never go back to being the person he’d been before.

And he could certainly never replace Edmund, but, like it or not, Reese was the Earl of Warshire now. The title conveyed power, privilege, and a whole host of problems. The most pressing—and surprising, to Reese—was a distinct lack of cash. Fortunately, he’d always been good with numbers and felt sure he could do a better job managing the books than Edmund’s old steward had. Reese wouldn’t mind sacking a few crooked employees and tightening some belts. He’d turn the estate around and take care of it until the day it passed to the next in line—his cousin, if he outlived Reese, or his cousin’s heir, if he didn’t. Reese didn’t much care who the title went to. Probably because it was never supposed to have been his.