London, 1801
Pen Montague fanned herself briskly and watched the dancers whirl in the hot ballroom. She loved to dance. The ladies at the Black Swanâbilled as âAn Establishment for Fine Gentlemen,â but which was, practically speaking, a whorehouseâhad taught her when she was a child. But no one would invite her to dance tonight. She was in attendance as the paid companion of the Dowager Countess Prudence Dalrymple. Asking her to dance would be tantamount to asking the parlor maid to dance.
She heaved a quiet sigh, jettisoned the idea of dancing and counted her blessings instead. She had this employment, which kept her fed and housed, and she was genuinely fond of the dowager, who was nothing if not entertaining, even at the advanced age of seventy-six. And the book Pen had written, the mere thought of which sent a shiver down her spine, was well into the second printing. Of course, no one on earth knew she had written it and hopefully never would. Despite its prosaic title, A Womanâs Handbook, by Anonymous, the content was so scandalous that were she ever identified as its author she would likely be tarred and feathered. Here, Pen, though she was unaware of it, frowned. The fan, hitherto moving at a furious pace, stuttered and then stopped altogether.
Robin Sackville Tufton, the Earl of Thanet, leaned his shoulders against a marble pillar and wished he were anywhere else. He had recently become earl at the death of his father, and in due course would be expected to produce an heir. To be precise, he would be expected to sire one.
He supposed the requisite countess would be the party undertaking the actual production of the heir. Until that occurred, he would be expected to attend these bloody balls in search of a wife. Now he stood, neck itching under his stock, annoyed because he wanted to dance and could not: he was overly eligible. His glance slid to Lady Dalrymple, whose dancing days were over, though mentally she was still as sharp as the proverbial tack. His wandering attention was arrested by the woman seated next to the dowager, fanning herself in the hot air. Overall, her face gave the impression of roundness: big eyes, plump cheeks and a tip-tilted nose. But offsetting this, the eyes were slightly almond-shaped, like a catâs, and her chin, which he caught sight of when she frowned and lowered the fan, was definitely not round. His heart missed a beat. He had no idea who she was. But very shortly he was going to find out.
âWhom are you examining with such feline intent?â Lady Dalrymple asked, breaking into Penâs reverie.
âNo one.â She resumed fanning herself. âOnly woolgathering, beg your pardon.â
âWhen I was your age,â Pru began, taking no notice of Penâs apology, âI only spoke to proper gentlemen because they make the best husbands. But now that Iâm my age, I prefer rakes because they are by far the more interesting to converse with. And talkââ she sighed dramatically ââis all Iâm currently able to do.â She paused for Penâs laughter and said confidentially, âHe is, you know.â
âWho is what?â Pen asked blankly.
âA rake. The man you were staring atââ she was practically pointing and Pen grabbed gently at the offending digit ââan inveterate seducer, slept with most of the women in this room, I donât doubt it, nothing like his father, I can assure youââ
Having drawn a deep breath, the dowager, as Pen knew perfectly well from experience, could go on ad infinitum. Pen interrupted ruthlessly. âI wasnât staringâI wasnât!â This when the dowager gave her the expressionless, wide-eyed stare that meant, Pen also knew from experience, that she was being judged as disingenuous. âI possibly happened to be looking in that direction, but I wasnât staring,â she ended firmly. Now that she actually did look, Pen saw that very handsome, the first banal words that sprang to mind, were a gross understatement.
The man was ludicrously, ridiculously, unfairly, unreasonably and overwhelmingly beautiful, so much so that for a few moments Pen could not separate the whole into its component parts: a face longer than it was wide, a high forehead and dark brows, beneath which were eyes of the clearest blue. Dark hair flecked with gray, though he could not be above thirty years of age, and a bladelike nose in perfect symmetry with the rest of his features. A deep chest narrowed to waist, hips and long, rangy legs, the whole encased in finely tailored clothes. Penâs tumbling, chaotic thoughts were brought to a full stop by his mouth, a sheer marvel of engineering. Penâs insides gave a disturbing little lurch and she judged him in that moment to be a man she should not speak to under any circumstances.