Atterley’s Masquerade Ball
Mayfair London
February 7, 1821

Gentlemen travel in packs, behaving like wolves on the hunt for the weakest of the debutante herd, wrote Lady Fortuity Abarough, third sister to the Duke of Broadmere—at least, third as far as birth order was concerned, since the duke had seven sisters in total. She wriggled her nose to relieve the terrible itch caused by the feathers on her crimson mask, huffing at the annoying plumage tickling her face. While doing so, she spied her brother Chance, fifth Duke of Broadmere, politely removing himself from the clutches of an older miss she recalled seeing last Season. She made an addition to her notes: At times the gentleman becomes the hunted, chased with great enthusiasm and desperation by those ladies experiencing their second or even third Season.

“Such cutting words,” said a familiar voice from behind her. “You surprise me, Fortuity. Might I ask what this study is for?”

She folded the paper and stuffed it into her feathery reticule that matched the deep ruby shade of her gown adorned with the same infernal swath of plumage besieging her nose. What on earth had the modiste thought by suggesting this birdlike creation, and why had she agreed to it? Without a glance back at the owner of the voice, she lifted her chin and kept her focus locked on the participants of the Marriage Mart circling one another on the dance floor.

“It is most rude to poke one’s nose where it does not belong, Lord Ravenglass.” She kept her voice low even though they stood off to themselves beside an overwhelming froth of bright red tulle cascading down from the gilded bow and arrow of an elaborate white cupid bearing a somewhat demonic expression. “And yes, you may ask about my study, but do not expect an answer.”

He chuckled softly. “Lord Ravenglass? I can always tell when I’ve piqued your ire because you resort to formal address. Are we not friends, Fortuity? Allies, even? Especially after last year? Why, even your sister Blessing said she thinks of me as a second brother.”

“Knowing my sister, she did not mean that as a compliment.” Fortuity turned and looked up at him, even though she knew it to be a mistake. Viscount Matthew Ravenglass was by far the most exquisite man she had ever met, and the handsome fool probably knew she thought that.

Mischief danced in his flinty gray eyes set off by a dashing black mask that convinced her that perhaps the next romantic story she wrote needed a dark-haired hero who stole the heroine’s heart at a masked ball. “And yes, we are friends and allies, but that does not mean we are confidants.”

His boyish smile made her heart beat faster as he dramatically pressed a hand to his chest. “You wound me, my lady.”

She struggled for a witty response, distracted by the observation that his black evening coat required no stuffing or special tailoring to make him appear as powerful and broad-shouldered as a Greek god, as the mighty Zeus, even. He just looked that way because he was and would undoubtedly look even better stripped naked. Her cheeks burned hot at that scandalous thought, and Mama was surely frowning down at her from heaven.

She tossed her head and huffed at the annoying feathers again before returning her attention to the dance floor. “Methinks your wounds are contrived, my lord.”

He leaned in so close that his clean, warm scent of citrus and sandalwood wafted across her, making her inhale deeper to savor it. The familiar fragrance reminded her of his wonderful parlor, filled with the books she had itched to peruse when she and her siblings had first visited him last year while attempting to save her sister Blessing’s husband.

“Fortuity?” he said, his voice deep and coaxing.

She swallowed hard and tensed every muscle to keep from betraying herself with a reaction to his nearness. “Yes, Matthew?”

“You know you can trust me. Do you not?”