Chapter One
Hertfordshire, May 1814
Discourage your charge from gossiping, but be
aware of all the latest on-dit yourself, so you can
separate the sheep from the wolves.
-- Miss Cicely Tremaine, The Ideal Chaperone
The carriage crested a hill and Lady Regina Tremaine gasped
at her first glimpse of Castlemaine, nestled in one of the
Chiltern hills' verdant valleys. The place lived up to its
name gloriously. Despite its lack of a moat, it was the
very picture of a Tudor castle with its battlements,
parapets, and pointed gothic windows. How odd to find it
plunked down here in Hertfordshire among the oxen and the
barley, only twenty miles from London. It was like
stumbling upon Camelot in the midst of Whitechapel.
"Interesting, isn't it?" said Cicely Tremaine, her spinster
older cousin and chaperone.
"Fascinating." Though she'd expected something of the sort,
after hearing Louisa wax rhapsodic over her home. "If it's
not too gloomy on the inside. You know how dank and dark
these old piles can be."
Shortly after, as a footman ushered them inside, she
discovered that the place wasn't gloomy in the least. Yes,
someone had gone a bit wild with the theme. Rumor had it
that the previous viscount had spent afortune overhauling
the castle some twenty-five years ago; inspired by
Walpole's Strawberry Hill, he'd turned the crumbling old
building into a gothic masterpiece.
It had been finely done, however. The burnished dark woods
and the ironwork gave an impression of strength. Despite
the faded hues of the ancient tapestry hanging on one wall,
the overall impression was of lush colors -- the rich gold-
shot silk of the drapes and the vibrant reds and blues of
the stained-glass window at the top of the magnificent
mahogany staircase.
Cicely edged closer to her. "On the inside it's not quite
what one expects."
"No." Regina knew Lord Draker was rich, but given his
notorious reclusiveness, she'd expected sooty ceilings and
cobwebs lurking beneath every chair -- not this
immaculately clean foyer with its sparkling crystal
chandelier and a Tintoretto painting that proclaimed the
owner's wealth and taste.
But only to those who knew art. Either Lord Draker was more
sophisticated than she'd realized, or he merely liked
interesting pictures.
She hoped it was the latter. She had her best successes
with shallow or simpleminded men; clever ones were a
bother, although even they could be gotten round easily
enough if she put her mind to it.
The butler approached, looking flustered. "Good morning,
ladies. There must have been some mistake. Miss North is in
London at present and -- "
"I'm not here to see Louisa," Regina said with a
smile. "Would you kindly tell his lordship that Lady Regina
Tremaine would like a word with him?"
The butler's face turned an interesting shade of purple. "H-
His lordship?"
She raised one eyebrow. "This is Castlemaine, isn't it?"
"Certainly, my lady, but...well...you do mean that you wish
to see the viscount, don't you? Lord Draker?"
"Of course."
"Marcus North, the sixth Viscount Draker."
"Yes, yes, that is the one," she said impatiently. "Have we
come to the wrong house?"
"Perhaps this is a bad time," Cicely whispered, her pallor
deepening.
"Nonsense." Regina offered the butler a cool smile. "Would
you inform his lordship that I am here to see him?" She
added archly, "If it's no trouble."
The butler colored again. "Of course not, my lady. Forgive
me, but ladies rarely...that is, his lordship does not..."
He trailed off weakly. "I will inform him of your arrival
at once."
"Sweet heaven, what a servant!" Regina told Cicely, as he
hurried up the main staircase. "You'd think his master was
a troll from the way that fellow acts."
"They do call him the Dragon Viscount," Cicely said.
Regina glanced up at the Tintoretto portraying St. George
slaying the dragon, the Draker coat of arms with its black
dragon rampant, and the mahogany newel post with a coiled
dragon atop it. "I can't imagine why," she said dryly.
Cicely followed her gaze. "Not just because of that. Why, I
heard that only last year he reduced a bookseller in the
Strand to tears over some moldy old book the man had
promised to him, then sold to Lord Gibbons. And he actually
struck one of His Highness's messengers last month."
"I also heard that Lord Maxwell keeps a goat in his
bedchamber, but you don't see me sending someone to milk
it. One mustn't let idle gossip govern one's actions."
"There's more than just rumor surrounding his lordship."
Cicely breathed heavily, having her usual trouble with her
weak lungs. "What about his treatment of his mother? Don't
you remember the horrible claims Lady Draker made when she
used to visit your parents?"
"I remember that Lady Draker had a knack for dramatic
exaggeration. Besides, his lordship can hardly be as awful
as she claimed and raise a sister as lovely as Louisa. Who,
incidentally, says that her mother lied about her son's
supposed mistreatment."
Cicely looked mutinous. "Miss North is probably too
terrified of her brother to say anything else."
"She doesn't act terrified, I assure you. She seems to
think he walks on water." Indeed, the incongruity between
Louisa's and society's respective images of Lord Draker
intrigued her. Even if she hadn't needed to pay this visit,
she might have come just to determine his
character. "That's why Louisa won't accept my brother's
attentions without his lordship's permission. Because she
respects Lord Draker's opinion."
"Yes, but -- "
"Shh," Regina interrupted. "Listen."
The butler's plaintive voice wafted down the stairs.
"B-But milord, what shall I tell them?"
"Tell them I'm indisposed," answered a deep male
voice. "Tell them I'm in India. I don't care what the hell
you tell them as long as you send them away."
"Yes, milord," came the butler's meek reply.
Regina scowled. So Lord Draker refused to let her have her
say? Not if she could help it. Spotting the servant stairs
down the hall, she started for them.
Cicely grabbed her by the arm. "What are you doing? You
can't just -- "
"Stay here and keep the butler occupied." Regina shook off
her cousin's weak grip. "I mean to speak with Lord Draker
one way or the other."
"But, my dear -- "
Regina didn't stay for further reproaches. If his lordship
thought she would drive twenty miles from London only to be
put off like some importunate creditor, he was in for a
surprise.
Upstairs in the lengthy hall, it took her only minutes to
find -- after peeking inside the rooms behind every other
massive oak door -- the one that must lead to his
lordship's study. She hesitated just long enough to examine
herself in a nearby mahogany-framed mirror. Cheeks
pleasingly flushed from their drive, check. New Bourbon hat
firmly in place, check. Matching lilac mantle that gaped
open to reveal just a hint of bosom, check. Lord Draker did
not stand a chance.
Before she could lose her nerve, she opened the door and
swept inside, right into the dragon's cave. Except that it
wasn't lined with blackened stones smelling of sulfur...but
with gilded leather smelling of ink. Books. Thousands of
books marched around the walls in varying shades of brown
and dark blue, further proclaiming their owner's education
and wealth.
The room was enormous, probably spanning the entire length
of the house. How could a person own this many books, let
alone read them?
Sweet heaven. She was in deep trouble now. Not only was the
viscount probably a clever man, but a clever man with lots
of knowledge at his fingertips. She brushed off that
unsettling thought. He was a man, after all, and a bookish
man at that, with little knowledge of society, current
affairs...feminine wiles. Surely her usual charm and a
flirtatious smile would suffice.
If she could find the dratted fellow. The library appeared
to be empty. She closed the door behind her more loudly
than she'd meant to, and a rich baritone voice wafted down
to her from the heavens.
"I take it you got rid of Foxmoor's sister."
She jerked, then glanced up to see a ledge directly over
her head. Moving farther into the room, she turned around
and found the Dragon himself. He was up on a little gallery
that ran along the near side of the high-ceilinged room and
contained even more bookshelves. His impressively broad
back was to her as he took down a volume and opened it with
almost paternal care.
It was the only careful thing about him. Everything else
was haphazard -- the raggedly trimmed hair that fell
unfashionably below his collar, the dust-smeared fustian
suit, and the scuffed boots.
And he was huge. No wonder everyone believed the rumor that
he was actually Prinny's son. He certainly had Prinny's
height and large frame, but without the corpulence that
plagued His Highness.
The shaggy-haired giant returned his book to the shelf,
then squatted to remove one lower down, giving her a view
of his well-shaped behind and the impressive thigh muscles
straining against the fabric of his ill-fitting trousers.
Her mouth went dry. Even she could appreciate a fine male
figure when she saw one.
"Well?" he asked. "Did Foxmoor's sister give you any
trouble? I hear she's the troublesome sort."
The words jerked her back to the matter at hand. "No more
troublesome than the average lady put off by a rude
gentleman."
He stiffened, then rose to face her, and she sucked in a
breath.
He was nothing like his rumored sire after all. For one
thing, he wore an exceedingly unfashionable beard. His
Highness would eat nails before he'd grow his whiskers that
long. But the prince would certainly not mind having this
man's body. A pugilist's meaty shoulders and burly chest
tapered down to a surprisingly trim waist. Even his calves
appeared to be well-turned, though his stockings...
She blinked and looked again. His stockings didn't match.
"Are you finished yet?" he snapped.
She jumped. "Finished what?"
"Looking me over."
Drat it, she hadn't meant to stare. She jerked her gaze up
to his bushy beard. "You can't blame me for being curious.
Few people ever get to see Castlemaine, much less its
owner."
"There's a reason for that." He turned his back on her to
restore his book to the shelf. "Now if you'll excuse me --
"
"I certainly will not. I wish to talk to you."
He removed another volume. "Like brother, like sister, I
see. Can't take 'no' for an answer."
"Not when the 'no' comes without an explanation."
"I'm busy. That should be explanation enough."
"You're not busy; you're a coward."
He whirled to face her, his scowl raining dragonly fury
down on her. "What did you call me?"
Excellent, Regina -- why not just slap his face with your
glove?
But drat the man, he'd really roused her temper. "A coward.
You're perfectly ready to slander my family to your sister,
but heaven forbid you should state your objections to our
faces."
A laugh echoed in the library. "You think you and your
brother scare me?"
Her annoyance increased. "Simon said you refused to speak
with him."
"He knows perfectly well why I prefer to communicate
through the Iversleys. And if he insists on continuing to
corrupt my sister -- "
"Corrupt!" she protested. "My brother would never corrupt
anyone!"
" -- I'll be happy to meet with him in person." Lord Draker
fixed her with his hard gaze. "So tell Foxmoor that sending
his sister here won't soften me one whit."
"He doesn't even know I've come. I'm not here on his
behalf. I'm here to argue for your sister."
She didn't miss the subtle gentling in his
features. "Louisa sent you?"
"She said you would never listen to her, since she's so
inexperienced in society. But she hoped you might listen to
someone who knows it well enough to point out the
advantages of an alliance between her and my brother."
Especially since the Iversleys upheld Lord Draker's refusal
to let Simon near the poor girl.
His face closed up. "Louisa was wrong. My mind is set."
"What possible objection could you have to Simon? He's one
of the most eligible gentlemen in London."
"I'm sure he is," he said, with an impatient wave of his
hand. "Now if you'll excuse me, I have work to do."
Regina was not used to being dismissed or ignored. And to
have this...this beastly devil do so was beyond the
pale. "I'm not leaving until I hear some reason for your
objection. Because I certainly can't see a good one."
"You wouldn't." He swept his gaze from the tip of her lilac
hat to the points of her expensive kid shoes, and she would
have sworn she saw admiration flicker in his gaze. Until he
added with a sneer, "Your sort never does."
She bristled. Tired of craning her neck up at this
obnoxious creature, she approached the stair that led up to
the gallery. "And what sort is that?"
"A wealthy lady of rank moving in the highest circles of
society."
She began to mount the little stairs. If he wouldn't
listen, she'd trap him on the gallery and make him
listen. "Your sister is a wealthy lady of rank moving in
the highest circles of society."
He scowled at her. "She's only there until she finds a
decent husband. I want a better life for her than that of a
society chit." He swept her with a contemptuous gaze. "The
sort who spends her days dithering over what color ball
gown to wear."
His blatant assumption stoked Regina's temper even higher.
She stepped onto the gallery and walked toward him. "I
suppose you'd rather she marry a bushy-faced hermit like
you. Then she can spend her days listening to him rebuff
all her visitors."
His lordship shot her a scalding look. Sweet heaven, he had
the most beautiful eyes she'd ever seen -- a rich brandy
brown, with long dusky lashes a shade darker than his hair.
A pity those eyes presently burned a hole through her
skull. "Better that than spend it catering to Prinny and
his ilk," he said.
The light dawned. "Oh, I see. You object to Simon because
of his friendship with His Highness. You don't like your
sister being around your father after you went to such
great pains to throw the man out of here all those years
ago."
"You're damned right I don't. And what's more -- " He broke
off suddenly. His frown disappeared, only to be replaced by
a suspicious crinkling at the corners of his gorgeous
eyes. "You do realize you just called me a bastard."
"I did not!"
"In the eyes of the law, my father was the fifth Viscount
Draker. And since you were clearly not referring to him..."
He had her there, drat him. Clever gentlemen were such a
bother.
He went on smugly, "One would think a duke's daughter would
know better than to throw salacious rumors about a man's
parentage right in his face." He settled his hand on the
gallery rail. "But then, we both know how thin is the
facade of manners that your sort put so much stock in."
"Now see here, you overgrown oaf, I've had enough of your
half-baked ideas about me and my 'sort.' " Pivoting on her
heel, she headed back toward the little stair. "If you want
to force Simon and Louisa to sneak around behind your back,
then fine by me. Who cares if they're caught in some
compromising position and tarred by scandal? I shall simply
tell my brother to go right ahead setting up their secret
meetings -- "
"Stop!" he roared.
She halted near the stairs, a smile playing over her face.
He came up behind her. "What the devil are you babbling
about?"
"Oh, no, I shan't trouble you with it -- you're far too
busy." She continued toward the stairs slowly -- very
slowly. "Clearly I've taken up too much of your precious
time already. So I'll be on my way."
She'd already reached the stairs when he grabbed her arm
and swung her around to face him. "Not until you tell me
what's going on, damn you."
Fighting a smile, she removed his hand from her arm. "Are
you sure you can spare the time?" she said sweetly. "I
don't know if I should impose."
He marched forward, forcing her to back down the
stairs. "Your hints about 'secret meetings' had better be
more than the figment of your imagination. Because if you
think some paltry trick will gain you my attention -- "
"Trick? Surely you don't think a woman who spends her time
dithering over which gown to wear could trick a clever
gentleman like you."
He swore under his breath.
Take that, you big lout. She was so busy congratulating
herself that she didn't pay attention and missed a step.
She stumbled and was about to tumble backwards to the floor
when his lordship snagged her about the waist.
For a moment they stood frozen, with only his broad arm
beneath her back preventing her from falling. Thank God he
was strong.
And surprisingly clean, for all his mismatched stockings
and rough looks. A heady scent of bay rum and soap wafted
through her senses, making her wonder if he were not quite
the oaf he seemed.
Then his eyes dropped to where her pelisse had fallen open
to reveal her low-cut bodice, and his gaze lodged there as
if stuck.
Men often stared at her breasts -- on occasion she'd even
used that to her advantage. But for some reason, his
staring unsettled her. He looked as if he wanted to devour
them...and make her enjoy the devouring.
As her breasts pinkened beneath his gaze, she opened her
mouth to rebuke him, then noticed the edge of the scar that
crawled above his beard and onto his cheek. She'd heard he
had a scar, but no one seemed to know how he'd received it
or how bad it was. His heavy beard covered most of it, but
the part that showed looked rather nasty.
He lifted his eyes to her face. Catching where her gaze was
fixed, he scowled. "Watch your step, madam. You wouldn't
want to go tumbling."
His thinly veiled threat sent a shiver along her spine. And
what had he done to gain such an awful scar anyway? She
shuddered to think.
Shifting her in his arms, he lifted her as if she weighed
less than nothing and set her firmly on the floor two steps
below, then descended to loom over her.
"Now, Lady Regina, you're going to explain exactly what you
mean by my sister and secret meetings. Because you're not
going anywhere until you do."
His low rumble of a voice sparked a peculiar quivering in
her belly. Apparently, she'd awakened the sleeping dragon.
Now she must figure out what to do with him.