Chapter One
Only one wedding guest was frowning. He stood, arms
crossed on his chest, and watched the other guests
celebrating. It was a perfect evening for it. A Iong soft
midsummer's evening, mild and balmy, the kind made famous
by Shakespeare--the land that England rarely got in
reality.
The wedding party had moved from the church to the groom's
nearby estate for the reception. It was a glorious one,
lasting from daylight into dusk. Musicians sat in leafy
arbors and played. Lanterns hung from the trees, twinkling
in the boughs like trapped stars. Torches flamed on the
lawns, echoing the candlefilled chandeliers inside the
house. The guests danced in the ballroom, onto the
terrace, and then out on the scythed lawns that rolled to
the river's edge and on into the coming night.
The frown didn't suit Lord Raphael Dalton. He wasn't much
past thirty, but had a hard-planed, angular face with
strict features, their only saving grace the surprisingly
dark lashes that offset his deep blue eyes. He had tried
very hard to compensate for his unfortunate red hair,
cropping it ruthlessly close in a modish Brutus cut. But
even that couldn't make it remotely fashionable. He was
spared the pale, freckled skin that often went with such
hair, his complexion tan and clear. He was lean, with a
wide rack of shoulders, and bore himself as the military
man he'd once been. Rafe didn't have a mild appearance;
the scowl made him appear harsher.
He wasn't looking at his newly wed host and hostess.
Instead, he didn't take his gaze from a dark lady standing
on the terrace nearby. He watched her as closely and
jealously as a cat at a mousehole.
Or so at least hisfriend, the earl of Drummond, remarked
softly to him.
Rafe's head turned fast. He pinned his friend with a
blazing look. "And how'd you know if you hadn't been
watching her that closely yourself?" he snapped.
"By watching you, of course. I didn't have to even glance
at her. Your eyes were mirrors of her soul," the tall,
thin, languid earl answered. He saw Rafe's
expression. "And if you hit me here and now," he added
softly, "you'll disrupt this lovely wedding party."
Rafe blinked; his shoulders drooped. "Too right," he said,
rubbing the back of his neck, "You're right. Damme, don't
you get sick of being right, Drum?"
His friend shrugged and hid a smile. "Perfection is
wearisome, I agree. But, Rafe, I thought you were as happy
as I to see our friends wed. If you keep frowning like
that, people will wonder if you see some problem with
their union."
"Problem?" Rafe asked, amazed. "Did you ever see Wycoff so
content?" he asked, looking at the groom. "Takes years
from his face. And look at his Lucy. It does the heart
good."
"Exactly, so stop scowling."
Rafe's harsh expression eased into genuine puzzlement.
"You look murderous."
"Do I?" Rafe's head went up. His cheeks grew warm. "Sorry.
My thoughts were far from them. Little could make me
happier than to see those two married."
"Little could make you happy indeed," Drum murmured.
Rafe still gazed at his dark lady. Only, the lady
Annabelle was not his, and might never be, he reminded
himself. Apart from the fact that he was a man women
didn't look at twice--nor did he blame them for it--she
was still bound heart and soul to another man. A man as
unobtainable for her as she was for himself, Rafe thought
savagely. The man she still yearned for was a good man,
but well matched and married to another good person, so
why didn't she cut line and move on? For the same reason
you don't stop wanting her, he told himself as he stood
watching her, helpless to look away. He hadn't expected to
see her here, hadn't known she was a distant connection of
the groom. She was so well born, she was likely related to
half the nobles in England. But not to him, and not likely
ever to be, and that grieved him.
The lady Annabelle wore a filmy gown of blue. It seemed to
match her mood as much as her magnificent eyes. She was
lovely. Famously so. Sonnets had been written to her; she
was justly considered an Incomparable. Midnight hair, all
soft and shining sable curls, midsummer-sky blue eyes, a
dainty little nose, alabaster skin. Slender, but with a
ripe though petite shape-- if there were a list of
features a lovely female should possess, a man needed only
to consider her to see them all. The sonnet had said that
too. And her laughter was like birdsong. Her infrequent
laughter, Rafe thought, scowling again to see her sad
smile as she greeted a friend.
Annabelle was of good birth, an earl's daughter with a
tidy fortune. Intelligent and charming. Four and twenty
and still unwed, which was shocking. She could have had
any man she set her sights on. But the man she'd wanted
had wanted another, and she couldn't get over it. Handsome
young Damon Ryder had been her near neighbor all her life,
she'd grown up wanting him, and whatever Annabelle wanted,
she got. Only not this time. He had met another, fallen
headlong into love, and never looked back. Everyone said
Annabelle had been merry as a grig before the man she
loved married elsewhere. Rafe hadn't known her then.
Sometimes he thought, with the pitiless honesty he was
afflicted with, that if she were still merry and bright,
he mightn't be as attracted to her. He might have admired
her as another man would appreciate a treasure in a
museum, and passed on by. It was her sorrow that called to
him as much as anything. Her sadness made her accessible.
He could do something for her. He might perhaps heal her.
At least he knew how to protect a woman; he could make a
sad lady a good mate. Now he wanted only to make her smile
again
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