Excerpt7

EXCERPT FROM CHAPTER ONE

The Earl of Warren’s London townhouse stood in fashionable Grosvenor Square. The Palladian monstrosity
with its imposing white columns had been in the Blake family for generations. On this particular May
evening every window blazed with light, even though it would be dawn in a matter of hours.
   Dylan Blake, the earl’s youngest son, paid the driver of the hired hack that had brought him, alighting
from the vehicle with a light step. His black velvet cloak whipped in the chill spring breeze, and the solid
weight of his dress sword bumped against his thigh. He strode toward the red brick mansion which had
never felt like a home, rebellion in his heart.
   Half a dozen footmen in deep blue livery waited on the front steps, their handsome faces impassive as
they shivered in the cold. One of the young men bowed and hurried to open the door, allowing the festive
sounds of laughter and music to drift out into the night.
   Dylan grinned at the lad as he crossed the threshold. The midnight supper was long over, but there were
still plenty of guests and the dancing was in full swing.
   His timing was absolutely perfect.
   The butler, Wadsworth, lifted a disapproving brow as Dylan entered, but the old man was far too well-
trained to actually chide his employer’s son for his late arrival. “Shall I announce you, sir?”
   Dylan nodded, his blood pounding with the thrill of having managed to thwart one of his father’s plans.
Childish, he knew, to continually provoke the man, but sometimes he couldn’t help himself.
   Surrendering his cloak to one of the footmen, Dylan followed the aging butler up the grand marble
staircase with its intricately carved banisters, then down the long hall that led to the ballroom. He was
dressed for effect tonight, in scarlet military regalia, his medals and gold epaulettes flashing in the
candlelight. They passed several aristocratic guests along the way, but Dylan ignored their stares and
whispers.
   The heady scents of beeswax and roses overwhelmed him as he entered the ballroom. The laughter and
low buzz of conversation was deafening -- the earl's privileged guests were obviously having a good time.
   Dylan scanned the crowd, his smile widening. He hadn't been to one of these affairs in more than a
decade, but nothing had changed. Society belles in elaborate gowns still whirled around the parquet dance
floor on the arms of suitable young gentlemen. Titled matrons still schemed and plotted on the sidelines as
the older men congregated in small groups, looking suitably bored.
   When the last notes of the current waltz had faded away, Wadsworth cleared his throat. “The Honorable
Captain Dylan Blake,” he intoned.
   For a moment there was utter silence. Dylan became the focus of scores of interested stares. They were all
craning their necks for a glimpse of the earl’s prodigal son, home at last after twelve long years of dedicated
service to the Crown.
   Dylan's gaze fastened briefly on his father's furious face. He gave his sire a nonchalant smile, then
turned his back and skirted the gleaming dance floor. Let the old bastard come to him, he thought with grim
satisfaction. His days of seeking the earl's favor were long over.
   After an awkward pause the music started up again, as did the whispers.
   Lord Basingstoke, the only friend Dylan had in this nabob crowd, was the first to approach. The tall, dark-
haired earl was dressed in austere black, as usual, and his dark eyes were full of welcome. “Blake! Where
the hell have you been?”
   Dylan shrugged, amused by the knowledge that everyone else wanted to know the same thing. “I had a
prior engagement.”
   Basingstoke stared at him for a moment, then chuckled in admiration. “You were with Cassandra, weren’t
you?” He shook his head in astonishment. “Has there ever been a woman you couldn’t get, once you set
your mind to it?”
   “Never.” Dylan grabbed a glass of champagne from a passing waiter and took a long, appreciative drink.
“It’s the uniform. Besides, I’m making up for lost time. I was in the Army for a bloody long time, you
know.”
   Basingstoke laughed, then sobered and nodded in the earl's direction. “Well, I hope she was worth it.
Your father was furious when you didn’t show up for dinner. Threw the whole thing off, you know.
Uneven number, and all that.”
   There were always exactly one hundred of London’s most elite and fashionable at Warren’s annual ball.
Because of its exclusivity, the ton considered an invitation to be the height of social accomplishment.
   The earl had debated long and hard about allowing his younger son to attend. By selling out so early in
his career, Dylan had taken the place of some far more deserving social climber. The earl had lectured
Dylan endlessly about the importance of the occasion, and threatened vague, dire consequences should
Dylan do anything beyond the pale.
   For these reasons, and a thousand more, Dylan had taken a sinful amount of pleasure in arriving late and
turning his father’s One Hundred Ball into a dinner of Ninety-Nine.
   There would be hell to pay for this latest transgression, but Dylan was enjoying the moment anyway.
   “My father has been furious with me since the day I was born,” he told Basingstoke with a shrug. “I
figured I might as well give him a reason.”
   Out of the corner of his eye, Dylan saw his older brother, Michael, confer briefly with the earl, then move
through the crowd in Dylan’s direction.
   As blond and golden as Adonis, Michael had always been the earl’s pride and joy. Viscount Sherbourne
from birth, Michael would one day inherit the earldom and all the wealth and privilege that went with it.
In return, Michael kept his reputation above reproach and obeyed their father’s every command.
   No doubt he was obeying one of the earl’s commands right now.
   “Let’s go down to the billiard room,” Dylan muttered, unwilling to stick around and be chastened in such
a civilized manner. He’d much prefer it if his father made a scene and took him to task for his irresponsible
behavior once and for all.
   But that would never happen. The earl simply didn’t care enough about his second son to expend such
emotion.

   “He’s a disgrace! Honestly, can you believe the nerve? Making a scene and ruining a perfectly lovely
ball!” Lady Amelia Lansdowne fluttered her filigreed fan with unusual vigor, an unbecoming flush on her
pale cheeks.
   “I’d hardly call this a scene, Amelia. He merely arrived a little late. I’m sure he had a good reason.”
Lady Natalia Sinclair sighed with impatience over her companion’s melodrama, but she had to admit her
own fan fluttered a bit faster as she watched Captain Blake chat with Lord Basingstoke.
   Captain Dylan Blake -- recipient of the Victoria Cross.
   Natalia knew all about him. She'd read the newspaper clippings touting his courage a hundred times, but
this was the first time she’d actually seen him.
   “He’s dreadfully good-looking,” she mused, casting a subtle glance in the captain's direction.
   In his scarlet dress uniform, with that confident military bearing and chest full of medals, he stood out in
the crowd of somber lords. His hair was thick and lush, black as midnight, caught neatly at his nape with a
piece of ribbon.
   But it was his face that took her breath away. He had high, chiseled cheekbones, a square jaw, and clear,
sun-kissed skin. His eyes were piercingly blue, startlingly light amidst all the darkness.
   Amelia gave a delicate shudder. “How can you say such a thing? He hasn’t a title, nor a farthing to his
name. He’s been in the military for years, serving with the very dregs of society. He probably doesn’t
know the first thing about how to act around civilized people.”
   “Surely the fact that he’s been fighting to preserve our way of life gives him the right to a few
eccentricities. He's a hero, Amelia.” Natalia didn’t bother to point out that a man’s wealth had nothing to do
with whether or not he was attractive. It wouldn’t do any good. In Amelia’s eyes, money and power did
determine a man’s worth.
   Unfortunately, Natalia's father felt the same way, and he was the one who would choose her future
husband.
   Amelia turned up her nose with a condescending sniff. “Well, hero or not, you wouldn’t catch me
marrying such a man.”
   “No,” Natalia said, barely able to manage a civil tone. “I don’t suppose so.” Not that a hero like Captain
Blake would want to marry a little cat like Amelia anyway, she thought, with no small degree of satisfaction.
   To her relief, Amelia soon drifted away, obviously searching for someone more inclined to share her
narrow-minded opinions. Natalia was left alone for a few moments, free to daydream about the Captain to
her heart’s content.
   She was dying to meet him, even though she knew her father would never permit a man like Captain
Blake to court her. It seemed so unfair. What good were wealth and a title, when so many of those who had
them lacked even a hint of character?
   Captain Blake had risked his life to save his men, dashing back into the fray three times before he himself
had been gravely wounded. The mere thought of his courageous actions sent a shiver down her spine.
   Unfortunately, Captain Blake and Lord Basingstoke left the ballroom before she could work up the
audacity to arrange an introduction. Intensely disappointed, Natalia forced a smile as the next young man
on her dance card came to claim her for a mazurka.
   Lord Roger Densby was the son of a duke. While undoubtedly her social equal, he was at least two stones
overweight and stank of sweat and brandy. He managed to step on her toes twice before he even got her out
on the dance floor and she was certain he didn’t have a heroic bone in his entire well-fed body.
   Densby, or someone like him, was undoubtedly her fate. Still, her entire soul rebelled at the thought of
spending her life with a man who wasn’t interested in anything but the next hunt or glittering party.
   What she really wanted was someone like Captain Blake. A man with poetry in his face and courage in
his heart.