Prologue
Dearest Lily,
Only a few days in the city and I have found my soulmate. The only issue is, he does not know it yet. And to be fair, he does not know me that much either. Surely you know of Lord Dawson, Marquess of Sutherland? Of course, you do, your Mama knows all the eligible bachelors of the season. Please, do not listen to the rumors about him. We’ve met once, and though the meeting was short, I am decided there is not another more virtuous man in the parish.
My dear brother-in-law, Lord Carrington, had him over one evening to discuss business and whatnot, so we met for supper. He is divine, with—
The sounds of coach wheels had Harriet Bradford launching from the seat at her writing table and bounding to the window that looked over the front drive. Eagerly, she looked out for the carriage carrying her sister and her husband, Lord Carrington, a Baron, as they came from a social outing in the town.
The line of five coaches, carrying all her brother-in-law’s guests, came down the snow-dusted drive to the main gate where uniformed footmen opened their doors.
Lord Carrington’s coach gleamed ebony and dark redwood under the weak winter sunlight, and as he came out, covered in a slate-gray coat, he helped her sister, Martha out.
Her sister, the newest Baroness of Carrington, fixed her dove-gray coat before taking her husband's arm. As they moved off, another coach took its place.
They’ll say that I must have lost my wits to seduce a man.
From the balcony of her room, Harriet waited for one man to come by, and when he did appear—her heart did a silly little hiccup.
Lord Dawson stood a head above the rest in his gleaming blue-black coat and sharp trousers. Though snow was drifting down, he reached up to pluck the hat off his head and gave his pristine blond hair a calculated ruffle.
The clean structure of his high, sharp cheekbones, square jaw, and mystic-gray eyes that had mystery and wonder were the source of women’s affection around the ton. They also were the subject of nasty gossip and cruel rumors of him being a rake. As far as Harriet was concerned, they were all lies from women he had graciously let down. No one who looked so much like an angel could ever be a devil—Harriet was sure.
She watched as a lady that she didn’t know, took his arm, as they began walking toward the house and to the tea party prepared for them. Sadly, Harriet could not attend as it was for couples only.
“Not to worry,” she consoled herself while retreating to her room. “I’ll see him again at the balls. Twelve nights is enough time for us to connect.”
Picking up the pen, she continued the letter to her dearest friend, but felt her mind temporarily blank.
Pure, irrevocable stupefaction, is the effect drawn on by handsome men with golden hair and angelic eyes…I think I shall call it the Dawson Malady. But that does not sound fitting—
While tapping her pen to her lips, someone knocked, and before she could give permission to enter, Antony Worter, Baron Carrington, bearing a box and a warm smile, entered. Her sister’s husband was a true blue blood, with a sculpted face, piercing-blue eyes, and dark hair that seemed never to be out of place.
“My Lord—”
“Miss Harriet,” his censure was a soft drawl, “how have I asked you to address me?”
Her cheeks warmed. “I still do not feel right calling you by your Christian name, My Lord, and to use your surname feels cold.”
He sighed audibly. “Well, one day, you’ll get a hold of it—we are family, after all. Here, this just came for you. It was delivered just as we came by. But the servants took it from the delivery door in the back. It’s from your friend, Miss Matthews, I believe.”
“Oh, thank you,” Harriet’s eyes dipped to the box. “But you didn’t have to bring it yourself. I know your party must be missing you.”
The Baron’s grin was wry. “They can wait. We’ll see you at supper, Dear. Martha picked up another trinket for you to go with the latest dress she acquired for you. Do try to look surprised; you know how fretful she gets at times.”
Laughing, Harriet nodded, “I will, thank you.”
The Baron bowed lavishly, “Good evening, Dear.”
With him gone, Harriet opened the box and saw a box of chocolate disks, marzipan candies, and caramels. Tucked into a corner was a novel, and after plucking it out, Harriet saw the name. Anon Ashworth, and delight shot up into her heart.
No one knew who Anon Ashworth was, but the person's novels were filled with heart-palpitating romance and erotic acts between a man and a woman, detailed enough to make one’s hair stand on end.
They were Harriet’s and Lily’s hidden secrets. Harriet did not know how Lily got her hands on them, but she would not ask as she didn’t want to put her friend in a hard spot. Nestled under the cover of the book was a letter that had Harriet’s shoulder slumping after reading.
“She’s off to Manchester for a few days and won’t be back until tomorrow night at the ball,” she grumbled, looking bleakly at the unfinished letter on the desk, destined to be unsent, but could be given.
Still, though, she went back to the desk and picked up the pen again and went on to write how she planned on experiencing true passion, and thanks to years of devouring Ashworth’s books—she knew exactly how to phrase her inner desires.
