Chapter 1

Thea

Mayfair, London

Spring 1816

Lady Theodora Hasting had perfected the art of looking interested in men who bored her. It was a wonder any man attempted to speak with her at all, given that she was damaged goods. She’d already been betrothed once and had only accepted him out of resignation. And when he died, the mourning period lasted longer than the engagement itself.

Now, her mother had resumed the campaign to marry her off with renewed vigor, so Thea stood in the Ashworth ballroom nodding at Lord Pemberton’s discourse on sheep husbandry while scanning the crowd for an escape route.

“The Southdown breed, you see, produces a superior fleece,” Pemberton droned on. “My estate manager believes we could increase yield by—”

“How fascinating.” Thea’s smile never wavered. Over Pemberton’s shoulder, she caught her mother’s watchful gaze from across the room. Lady Hasting stood with a cluster of matrons, but her attention remained fixed on her daughter.

A hand appeared at Pemberton’s elbow. “Forgive the interruption.”

Wesley. The Duke of Greystone, if one wanted to be formal about it. Thea had known him since they were children, back when he was just the heir, and she was the girl who beat him at cards and laughed at his jokes. Before his father died, turning him into a title and just an occasional glimpse of the man she used to know.

He used to be fun and succumb to her antics, but he’d grown far too serious since becoming a duke.

Even still, she’d spent years wanting him to look at her in the ways she’d imagined. That he might see her as more than the wild girl who climbed trees faster than him.

“Your Grace.” Pemberton executed the required bow.

“I believe Lady Theodora promised me this dance.” Wesley extended his hand toward her, his signet ring worn over his glove showing the initials “WD”. She wondered what it meant. Wesley Duke? That would be silly. But then she swiftly forgot about the ring, and her stomach tightened from imagining his large hands on her body. “Unless this conversation is too engaging to abandon?”

Thea placed her fingers in Wesley’s palm and felt his warmth even through two layers of kid leather.

“I didn’t promise you anything,” she said once they were out of earshot.

“You looked like you were considering throwing yourself from the nearest window. I assumed you’d prefer a waltz over the prospect of uncertain death.”

“That depends. If there is a tree outside that window, I would make it down safely. But I trust that you will prove to be a more engaging conversationalist, so I might avoid tearing my dress on the branches.”

His mouth tipped at one corner. That half-smile could make her melt into the floor. “I shan’t do much worse.”

The orchestra struck up a waltz. Wesley’s hand settled at her back, warm through the silk of her gown, and Thea had to remind herself to breathe. His other hand clasped hers, drawing her close enough that she could see the flecks of gold in his brown eyes, the slight tension at the corners of his mouth.

She placed her palm on his shoulder and felt the muscle beneath his coat. This was Wesley. She’d known him half her life. She had no business noticing the breadth of his shoulders or wondering what his skin would feel like under her hands instead of all this damned fabric.

But the boy she’d known had grown into something else entirely. Taller than she remembered, though she saw him at every ball, musicale, and garden party the Season demanded. Dark hair that had once fallen into his eyes now combed back. A jaw she wanted to trace with her fingers, and a mouth she’d thought about far more than she should admit.

“You never came to visit over the holidays. I wasn’t certain you’d attend the Season,” he said as they moved into the first turn.

She scoffed. “You could have come to call on us yourself.”

“Last I heard, dear Thea, you were still in mourning.”

“Grief takes time.” Not exactly a lie. She had grieved for William, in her way. He’d been kind and funny. He had made her feel like perhaps she could build a life with someone, even if that someone wasn’t—

She cut the thought short.

“Besides,” she continued, “that’s just what I’ve been telling Mama to earn myself a respite from her matchmaking attempts.”

“I think your mother has caught onto your ruse.” Wesley’s hand was firm at her waist, his thigh brushing hers as they turned. And she wanted to press herself against him.

“Undoubtedly.”

“If you should require my assistance this Season, I’ll be there.” His voice dropped on the last few words, and Thea looked up before she could stop herself. His expression hadn’t changed—still pleasant, still guarded—but his hand had tightened. “Since it doesn’t seem your mother has a good measure on who is right for you.”

His thumb pressed against her lower back through the silk, the heat shooting into her spine. The sensation was gone as quickly as it came, but now she couldn’t stop noticing the way he held her—close, but unfortunately not quite close enough to be improper.

She wanted to believe it might mean something more. That he might think of her in the same way she often thought of him.

She’d delayed her come out by a year after his father died, not wanting to make her debut while he was in mourning, certain that when the time came, he would see her and know.

He hadn’t. She’d waited through one Season, then another, watching him dance with other women, exchange pleasantries, and retreat as soon as a suitor was in Thea’s presence. She’d accepted William’s courtship because William had looked at her with undisguised want. Thea had grown tired of waiting for a man who would never see her as anything more than a childhood friend.

And she gave herself to him. All of herself. Several times, in fact. Which only made William’s death all the more tragic. They’d never actually spoken their vows, so she was a ruined woman. Her mother would suffer apoplexy if she knew. Wesley would likely think of her as a lightskirt unbefitting the title of a duchess, that was, if he ever did take interest in her.

It would seem that Thea just wasn’t meant to know of true love and marriage.

“And I suppose you have opinions on what men are suitable for my affections?”

The words came out sharper than she’d intended, edged with years of frustration she’d tried to bury. Wesley’s eyes met hers, and she almost thought she saw heat there. But if she did, it was gone just as fast.

The waltz ended, saving him from answering her question. Wesley released her with the same smooth grace he always had, stepping back from her in one swift motion. Her waist felt cold without his hand there, and she fought her irritation at how she allowed him to affect her.

“Thank you for the rescue.” Her voice came out steadier than she felt. “I’ll be sure to claim a different savior next time Pemberton corners me, so as not to overburden you.”

“Thea—”

But whatever he’d been about to say was interrupted by her mother’s arrival. Lady Hasting descended upon them in a rustle of burgundy silk, her smile bright and her eyes sharp.

“Your Grace, how kind of you to partner with my daughter.”

“It’s always a pleasure.” Wesley’s gaze lingered on Thea’s face a moment too long, causing heat to creep up the back of her neck.

“You’re too gracious.” Her mother’s hand closed around Thea’s elbow. “I believe Lord Harrington was hoping for an introduction to the gardens. The night-blooming jasmine is quite spectacular this time of year.”

“Mother—” It was just another reminder that even her mother knew that nothing would ever come of her infatuation with the duke.

“Do excuse us, Your Grace.”

She was being steered away before she could protest, her mother’s grip firm. Thea glanced back once. Wesley stood where she’d left him, watching her go with an expression that made Thea want to run back to him and ask him why he never pursued her.

She turned away before she could do something foolish.

******

When she reached her bedchamber, her skin still burned where Wesley had touched her.

She dismissed her maid with instructions not to wait for her, claiming exhaustion. The woman bobbed a curtsey and departed, leaving Thea alone with the silence and the familiar restlessness that always followed these evenings. It was worse tonight. The waltz had stirred up everything she’d spent years trying to ignore.

The clock on the mantel read midnight. Late enough that the household would assume she’d retired for the night. Early enough that things would just be getting interesting at the Silver Fox.

Thea knelt before the trunk sitting inside her wardrobe. A false bottom revealed the clothes she kept hidden there: a man’s shirt, a pair of breeches, a dark green waistcoat, and a coat that had been tailored to fit her narrow shoulders. Tucked underneath the clothing were a length of linen to bind her breasts, and a cap to conceal her hair and face.

It was everything she needed to transform into Kit Barton for the evening. She stripped off her night rail and began. The binding came first, flattening her curves into a shape that would be undetectable beneath all of the layers. Then the shirt, the breeches, and the waistcoat. Lastly, the coat buttoned over everything. She tucked her hair beneath the cap before pulling it low on her forehead. A touch of ash from the burned end of a cork darkened her brows and added shadow beneath her cheekbones.

After all that she’d lived through, Thea had decided long ago that she was going to do as she pleased. She’d always enjoyed cards. And all the more so, she enjoyed winning money from crowds of drunk men.

The mirror showed her someone else. In low enough lighting, her appearance was that of a young man who might be a second son or a clerk. She didn’t prefer to alter her appearance this way, but at least while she was out playing cards, there would be no mother scheming to marry her off, and no duke she couldn’t stop wanting.

Kit Barton had none of Thea’s problems. Kit Barton was free.

The servants’ stairs took her down to the garden and then she hurried out the gate to a hired hack that conveyed her to the Silver Fox.

The Fox was not, strictly speaking, a hell. Hells catered to the desperate and dissolute, men prone to losing their fortunes in a single night of bad judgment. The Fox attracted men who wanted to play cards without the weight of their titles, younger sons with more skill than inheritance, the occasional lord slumming it for the thrill.

Winning money from some of the very men her mother forced her to dance with made it all the more fun.

“I thought you weren’t going to show.” Parker looked up from behind the bar as she entered, his weathered face creasing into something that might have been a smile. He was the only person in London who knew Kit’s true identity. He kept that secret in exchange for a cut of her winnings and the entertainment of watching nobles lose to a woman in breeches.

“You know better than that.” She dropped into her usual chair at the corner table, nodding at the two men already seated. “Gentlemen.”

Thea played the way she always did—well enough to win more than she lost, but careful never to draw too much attention. The cards were secondary to the thrill of freedom. No chaperones and no pretending that she was some innocent, almost spinster on the marriage mart. She might be close to a spinster, but she was far from innocent.

Here, she was just Kit. And Kit could do whatever the bloody hell Kit wanted.

She was up after a few hands. The door swung open, and she didn’t look up from her cards, although the shift of the attentions in the room made her curious. She waited until she’d finished the hand, collected her modest winnings, and reached for her drink—the only one she’d allow herself—before glancing at the new arrivals.

Her hand froze around the glass.

Wesley. And he wasn’t alone. Two men she immediately recognized flanked him. Wes’s closest friends from school, Lord Louis Beaumont and Lord Max Deering. She’d seen them at balls and house parties over the years.

They looked wrong here, all three of them. She had never imagined Wesley gambling, especially after he had taken on the weight of his father’s title.

Thea set her cards face down on the table, reaching for her glass to cover the tremor in her fingers. One of the men at her table had already noticed the new arrivals, craning his neck to get a better look. If she stood now and walked out, she could avoid this entirely.

But Wesley was already crossing the room toward her table. She pulled her cap down lower over her brow. She never removed her cap indoors, and no one ever said anything to her about it.

“Deal me in?” He stopped beside the empty chair across from her. His gaze passed over her without recognition, seeing only what she wanted him to see: a young man of middling status and unremarkable appearance.

He had no idea. None at all.

Thea’s pulse beat in her throat. She kept her expression neutral, channeling every ounce of Kit’s confidence, even as her mind raced. Wesley was standing three feet away, and he didn’t know who she was.

“If you’ve got the coin.” She let her voice drop into a deep, rough tone.

Wesley smirked and waved his hand at her. “I think I can manage.”

He took the seat across from her. Louis claimed the chair to his left, already calling for whiskey, while Max settled at Wesley’s right.

The cards were dealt. Thea won the first hand on a bluff and grinned as she pulled the coins toward her.

“Damn and hell.” The curse slipped out in Kit’s voice—the same mild profanity she always used when the cards went her way. “That’s a pretty pot.”

Wesley laughed, and the sound hit her square in the chest. She hadn’t heard him laugh like that in so long. And she missed it.

She looked at her cards, then watched him across the table. And knew, with perfect clarity, that she was in trouble.

He signaled for another round with his sleeves pushed up to reveal his forearms. She wasn’t entirely sure what to do.

But she also didn’t want to leave.