Chapter 1
Jonathan Faraday, the Marquis of Dansbury, looked up at the
building before him and scowled. Depressingly respectable
both inside and out, it stood in a section of London he
rarely visited. And staying away from it this evening would
have suited him perfectly well. He slid his gaze sideways
to regard his mistress. "This is quite possibly the dimmest
idea you've ever had."
"Nonsense," Lady Camilla Maguire soothed airily, though
despite her carefree tone, she wore the wary expression of
a handler facing an irritated lion. "Anyway, I won the cut
of the cards. You promised we would spend the evening
wherever I wished."
"When I allowed you to win, I assumed that your idea of an
evening out would consist of Vauxhall Gardens, or one of
Antonia's card parties." He leaned closer as he led their
small party through the open double doors. "Or better yet,
my bed chamber," he continued, breathing the words into her
ear in a last attempt to change her mind.
"Stop it, you naughty thing," she chastised, her smile
poorly disguising her annoyance at him.
"Whatever for? I had no idea you would be leading me
straight to Hades."
"Jack, Almack's is not at all like Hades. Please behave."
Camilla tugged at his arm to pull him into the coat room,
her brown eyes regarding him with thinly veiled impatience
from beneath a trained dishevelment of flaming red hair.
Jack raised an eyebrow at her. He had swiftly begun to
weary of her narrow ambitions and predictable desires, as
she had apparently tired of his sarcasm and pointed
cynicism -- her obvious reason for the evening's sojourn.
Even so, keeping her about was less troublesome than going
to the effort of acquiring a new mistress yet again this
Season. He'd lost count already, after barely a month in
town. "I beg to differ," he returned in a determinedly
amiable tone. "Almack's and Hades are barely
distinguishable from one another. Damned souls wailing and
swirling about, stacked to the ceiling and trapped for
eternity."
Ernest Landon, the third member of their foursome, chuckled
in his usual sycophantic manner as they entered the main
room. "Well said, Dansbury. Damned wailing souls. Ha, ha."
Though it was the middle of June, London and the whole
south of England remained locked in a midwinter chill. The
blast of heat from the crowded, noisy assembly rooms should
therefore have been welcome, but as the smell of sweat
followed close behind the warmth, Jack found it more a
confirmation of his analogy to hell. Promise or no promise,
the sooner he could make his exit, the better.
"Please don't be so difficult, Jack," Camilla pleaded
again. "It's proper society."
He nodded. "I know. Disgusting, isn't it?" Stodginess and
Almack's had ever been fast friends, and as Jack looked
about the room he could see no evidence tonight that the
relationship had faltered. His presence had already
elicited a few stares, which he returned in kind, and
muttered comments, which he pretended to ignore. If he
hadn't been titled, and feared, his scandalous little party
would never have been allowed into the hallowed, foul-
smelling halls.
Ogden Price took a silver box from his pocket and flipped
it open. "You know, Dansbury, you might for once attempt to
spend an evening in a socially acceptable manner," he said
offhandedly, taking a pinch of snuff and inhaling. "It
won't kill you, after all, and I doubt your reputation will
be the least bit purified by the experience."
Jack began to reply, then stopped, his interest snared.
Price cared for Almack's nearly as little as he did. It
seemed at least two of his companions had ulterior motives
for being in attendance this evening. He eyed his friend,
noting the shifting of the gray eyes and the way the snuff
box seemed to have become an inexplicably fascinating
object. "Who is she, Price?" he asked smoothly, stepping
closer to be heard over the strains of a boisterous country
dance and a hundred wagging tongues.
The eyes flicked over to meet his, then dropped. "No one,"
Price returned too quickly, and snapped the box
shut. "Simply a pretty face." The silver container
disappeared back into his pocket. "One may admire, you
know."
"Indeed, one may," Jack agreed easily, cheering
considerably. If Ogden had found an objet d'interest, at
least he could look forward to a bit of amusement before he
fled back to the dark corners of London he preferred. "And
does this admirably pretty face have a name?"
"Jack, dance with me," Camilla interrupted, sliding her arm
around his, her warm closeness smothering in the sweltering
room.
"No. I'm conversing with Price." Whether the evening ended
with them parting company or not, he wished her well and
Godspeed in her search for a less acerbic peer to keep her
company. At the same time, he had no intention of looking
the fool while she searched.
"I want to dance," Camilla insisted, rubbing her bosom
against his arm.
The motion was more annoying than arousing. "A country
dance? Not even your considerable charms, my dear, could
entice me to step into that pit of hell."
"Brute."
She pouted, but didn't relinquish her grip. If the embrace
hadn't been shockingly intimate for Almack's, he would have
shrugged her off. Instead, he returned his attention to
Price, intent on the hunt. "So, my boy--"
"Jack," she protested again.
"Come, Lady Maguire, I shall dance with you," Ernest
offered with more astuteness than usual.
Camilla humphed and airily took Landon's hand. "At least
there is one proper gentleman present tonight."
"Better Landon than me," Jack drawled, watching her
departure.
Lady Maguire may have wanted a night in proper society, but
she certainly hadn't dressed for it. Her burgundy and gray
gown stood out bright as blood amid the wan flowers in the
pallid assembly, and her deep curtsey served to reveal most
of her charms to her dancing partner -- an effective
advertisement for the services she offered.
Jack looked slyly at Price. Although he was reputed to be a
dangerous man, over the past few months he had felt in
greater danger of succumbing to boredom than to a duelist's
ball. Tormenting Ogden would provide some diversion, at
least. "To repeat -- who is your mysterious charmer, Price?"
"Leave off, Dansbury," Price returned, clearly
irritated. "It's not worth the jest you'll make of it. And
looking does not equate with desire, anyway. Admiring a
woman is like admiring a statue; one may recognize a
pleasing shape without wishing to make a purchase."
Jack lifted both eyebrows. "Now I am truly fascinated. I
have not until this moment heard you utter the words
pretty, admirable, and pleasing in conjunction with any
single female. Do tell me her name."
With an annoyed glare, Price pointed at the noisy gaggle of
young ladies gathered about the edges of the room and
waiting, fans beating the air madly, to be asked out onto
the dance floor. "Go bother the babes in the woods," he
snapped.
"The fox prefers hens to chicks," Jack said, amused.
Simpering, witless things they were, naive enough to think
his reputation romantic, and stiff and awkward enough that
they weren't worth pursuing. "You'll need a better
distraction, I'm afraid. This year's crop doesn't show any
more promise than last year's."
"For God's sake, Dansbury. Have mercy," Price sighed.
"Never. So, why don't you save us both the trouble of my
wearing you down, and point her out to me?"
"She's not here." Price motioned to a footman laden with
glasses of flavored ratafia. He took one, and handed a
second to Jack. "I say, is that Lord Hunt over there? I
thought him still in India."
Jack didn't bother looking. "He returned better than a week
ago. I've already nicked him for nearly four hundred quid
at hazard, and he still thinks he's having fun. Don't turn
the subject. This chit is obviously the reason you joined
our little jaunt into proper society, and the reason you
refused to flee with me to Jezebel's Harem when the chance
arose."
"No, she is not. You--"
"So, what's wrong with her?" Price was one of the few who
at least made a show of standing up to him, and his
uncharacteristic interest in a woman over a game of hazard
was far too intriguing to let go of. "A squint, perhaps, or
an ill-placed mole?" He grinned at Price's put-upon
scowl. "A prominent birthmark, an insufficient bosom, a
lisp, stooped shoulders, a bald sp--"
"Sweet Lucifer, Dansbury! Leave off!" With a look of
inexpressible annoyance, Price jabbed a finger in the
direction of the entryway. "There -- she's just arrived.
Now have your amusement and be done with it."
Turning, Jack caught a glimpse of a white dress, and
offered his friend a mock look of horror. "A debutante? For
shame, Price, to become besotted with a young and
inno . . ."
For the space of a dozen heartbeats, the clamorous country
dance, the cackling laughter of Lady Pender behind him, the
shuffle of dancers sliding across the slick floor, Almack's
itself, simply ceased to exist. Emeralds, he thought
silently. Her eyes were the color of emeralds. She stood in
the doorway and glanced about the crowded assembly room, as
though seeking a familiar face. And then, with a rousing
shock nearly enough to rattle his teeth, the green,
sparkling gaze caught his.
Jack drew a slow breath and stared back at her. Almost as
if in a daze, both unwilling and unable to turn his eyes
from hers, he took in the rest of her. Hair dark as
blackest midnight had been pulled up into an intricate,
fashionable tangle at the top of her head, while a few
curling tendrils escaped to frame her high cheekbones. The
ebony against the smooth cream of her skin was so striking
it made her look almost sculpted, an artist's rendering of
perfection. Her eyes, though, were bright, interested, and
very alive. They held his with the same startled intensity
he felt in himself. A slight, blushing rose touched her
cheeks and a smile curved her lips -- and then the dancers
obscured her from his gaze.
He blinked. "'Angels and ministers of grace defend us'," he
murmured.
"Hamlet?" Price returned.
Jack jumped. "Beg pardon?"
"You were quoting Hamlet. You must be impressed."
"Ah." Jack resisted the urge to look in her direction
again, and instead took a sip of peach ratafia. Thankfully
it was truly awful. "Good God." He scowled and handed the
glass to a footman. By the time he faced Price again his
usual cynical expression was back in place, though
anticipation and excitement ran hotly just under his skin
like a fever. "It's merely that you had me imagining all
sorts of horrors. I hadn't expected anything remotely . . .
attractive. Who is she?" Unable to resist, he turned to
find her again.
"I . . . ah--"
"You said you didn't wish to make a purchase." This keen,
humming interest was quite unlike him, but it was
impossible to ignore. As she looked in his direction again
and then spoke to a young woman beside her, he knew she
must have felt it, as well. If she possessed a beating
heart and half a mind, she had felt something. "So, who is
she?"
"The Ice Queen," came from beside him. Camilla returned to
slide her arm around his. "Look at her. She's got half the
lords in London after her. Nance has already proposed, they
say."
Apparently no wealthy gentleman had been interested in Lady
Maguire's considerable charms, and Jack frowned, finding
her continuing presence annoying, now. He returned his
attention to the girl. The crowd of gentlemen vying for a
place on her dance card was rather large -- and most of
them weren't particularly young, either.
Another line from Shakespeare -- something about a snowy
dove trooping among crows -- crossed into his mind, but he
sternly refrained from uttering it aloud. Perhaps he was
suffering from a delirium brought on by the overheated
room. Yet he was alert enough to note that the delicate
flowered pattern running through her ivory gown was the
exact emerald of her eyes, and that the ribbon in her black
hair and the soft-soled slippers peeking out from beneath
her long skirt were of the same rich color. And he was
aware enough to know that he wanted to do more than simply
look at her. Looking was for the other toads in the
room. "Stuffy bunch of circling buzzards."
"What do you expect?" Camilla returned, breathing the words
into his ear and infinitely more interested in his
companionship now that he was looking at someone
else. "Only the most respectable for Lilith Benton."
"That lets you out, doesn't it, Jack?" Ernest chuckled.
"Lilith Benton," Jack repeated softly. She and her
companion, a tallish girl with blond, curly hair whom he
vaguely remembered seeing last Season, stood speaking to
their admirers and whispering together. "Who's the girl
with her? Miss Something or other."
"Miss Sanford, I believe," Ernest offered.
"Yes, that's it." Jack nodded absently as he extricated his
arm from Camilla's. "Excuse me for a moment. I believe I've
done my duty by you for the evening, my dear."
Camilla snapped her fan shut with an angry crack, but knew
better than to protest as he turned to make his way across
the crowded floor.
No doubt Miss Benton was receiving an earful of frightful
details about his character from her companion. Though he
could hardly dispute them, neither was he feeling
particularly monstrous this evening. A few smiles and
compliments were generally enough to put even the most
seasoned lady at ease, and a schoolroom chit would hardly
take that much effort. And schoolroom chit or not, she was
exquisite. He grinned to himself. Besides, Almack's stuffy
patronesses would fall dead if he asked her for a waltz.
Jack ignored the two men standing directly behind her,
obviously her father and a brother, and instead stopped
directly before the girl's companion. "Miss Sanford." He
smiled and gripped the young lady's fingers.
She stared at him, open-mouthed.
"How pleasant to see you again," he continued easily. Jack
released her hand, and she snatched it back as though it
had been scalded. "I was hoping you might introduce me to
your lovely companion."
"Oh . . . I . . . you . . ." Miss Sanford stammered.
Jack settled his expression into a pleasant, harmless smile
and waited. Although he could sense the girl beside him, he
didn't want to look at her until he could speak to her and
take her hand. He intensely wanted to touch her, could
almost feel the heat coursing between them. He took a slow
breath, welcoming the unaccustomed craving running along
his veins.
"If you please, Miss Sanford," he cajoled.
"Yes, oh, yes," she finally managed, blushing a violent
red. "Lil, the . . . um, the Marquis of Dansbury. My . . .
my lord, Miss Benton."
Jack finally turned to look at her. She was smaller than he
had realized at first, nearly a full foot shorter than he.
Small-boned and slender, she was enchanting, with a bosom,
though not so ample as Camilla's, that seemed to beg for
poetry to be written in its honor. His gaze traveled
upward, taking in every inch of her as if she truly were a
piece of fine art. At her lips, he paused -- not just
because they were full and red and he wanted to taste them,
but because they were drawn in a firm, straight line
completely at odds with the openly enticing look she had
given him earlier.
"Miss Benton," he said, as his gaze reached her eyes. "I'm
pleased to make your acquaintance." He reached for her
hand, but with a slight start she put them both behind her
and took a step backward.
Her emerald eyes looked directly into his. "I am
appreciative that in light of your quite . . . thorough
perusal of my person, my lord, you have found me adequate
to converse with. However, I have perused your reputation,
and find you to be someone with whom I do not wish to be
acquainted. Good evening." She turned her back and walked
away to rejoin her admirers.
Jack stood where he was for a moment, flabbergasted
surprise driving every other thought from his brain. The
chit had actually cut him. Miss Sanford uttered something
unintelligible, gave him a quick curtsey, and hurried away
as well. The movement roused him, and he glanced down at
his outstretched hand and slowly lowered it again.
His wild reputation generally made him a titillating guest
for the more daring hostesses, on the rare occasions he
attended their balls and soirees. Females might be wary of
him if they had any sense, but never did they insult him to
his face. The cut had certainly been seen; he could already
hear the wave of quiet snickers and giggles going about the
assembly room. Black anger and piqued frustration burned
deep in his chest and down his veins to his clenched
fingers. She'd felt the attraction between them, too; he
knew it. And still, she claimed to have found him lacking.
The damned chit was lying. And she had just cut the wrong
man.
Jack stalked back to his cronies.
Price took one look at his face and began shaking his
head. "She's a mere babe, Jack. Leave it be."
"Why do they call her the Ice Queen?" the marquis asked
Camilla tightly.
She gave a slow smile. "Much as you like to keep up on
things, I can't believe you haven't heard of her. Her
mother was Elizabeth Benton, Viscountess Hamble." She
raised a painted eyebrow at his dark, unchanged
expression. "No? Shame on you, Jack. Lady Hamble's the one
who took up with the Earl of Greyton, and ran off from her
family six or seven years ago."
That explained his ignorance. "I was in France," he said.
Camilla's smile faltered. "Continue."
"Jack," Price began again.
Landon snapped his fingers. "I remember. Greyton needed a
bankroll to edge off the hawks -- near bankrupt, he was.
Thought Lady Hamble was plump in the pockets, and won her
off. Turned out everything was in her husband's name,
though, and she hadn't a feather to fly with. He left her
in Lincolnshire and married Lady Daphne Haver a week later.
She's hare-lipped, but her papa was so pleased to get her
off that he bought Greyton out of twig."
"Lord Hamble pulled the family out of London," Camilla took
up the tale. "When she came begging back, he turned her
away. She died a few months later of some illness or other,
but he hasn't been back in town since. Now that the Ice
Queen's come of age, she's out to restore the family's good
name." She snickered. "And believe me, she's the one to do
it -- little Miss Respectable."
Jack nodded and looked across the room again. She was
waltzing with the Earl of Nance -- who danced in the same
haphazard manner he played cards -- and Jack continued to
watch the pair of them coolly for a few moments. She hadn't
so much as glanced in his direction since the cut, and he
wondered if she thought she had disposed of him. Her second
mistake of the evening. "Is that her father who came in
with her?"
Lady Maguire nodded. "And the other's her brother, William."
"He's the one I dunned for two hundred pounds at the Navy
Club the other night," Landon supplied. "Boy doesn't know a
damned thing about cards." He grinned. "I'm meeting him at
Boodle's later."
"Jack," Price pleaded again, "for God's sake, d--"
"You said you weren't interested in making a purchase,"
Dansbury snapped. "Has that changed?"
"Well, no," Price hedged, "but you can't mean to--"
"Then leave off or go away," Jack continued blackly. He
took a breath and forced a slight, dark smile. "I've a game
in mind."
"I knew it," Landon chuckled. "She won't be respectable for
long." He turned to Price. "One hundred quid says the Ice
Queen'll be warming our Jack of Spades's bed by the end of
the Season."
"That wee, small-breasted thing?" Camilla laughed
gratingly. "Jack wouldn't bother. Besides, she doesn't want
to be warmed. She hates mischief, and she's already worried
that her brother's going astray in London." She tugged at
Jack's sleeve. "Let's go," she cajoled. "You hate it here,
anyway."
Jack's eyes flicked to the brother. The tall, tawny-haired
boy looked fresh down from university, and from his
expression was chomping at the bit to do something bold and
reckless, but obviously had no idea to go about it.
"Astray and mischief are my specialties, my dear," he
murmured, glancing at Miss Benton again and disengaging
himself from Lady Maguire. "Perhaps I might lend a hand."
"Jack," she protested.
"Don't worry, Cam. Price will see you home." He made a
mental note to send her a diamond-something in the morning
to quell any inconvenient feelings of jealousy, and to keep
her quiet until she found her next true love or until he'd
concluded his revenge.
Jack could be very patient, and he had every intention of
seeing to it that the Ice Queen was thoroughly melted by
the end of the Season. Another line from Shakespeare crept
into his thoughts, and he smiled grimly. "'Cry havoc, and
let slip the dogs of war'," he intoned, then winked at
Ernest. "I'll join you and young William Benton at
Boodle's, I think."