Page 1 of Bedding the Marquess
Prologue
London, 1823
Gideon Bray, Marquessof Swanleigh, signaled for another drink from a passing servant. It was hours into the annual Haverford ball, and the guests were becoming quite rowdy. Dance steps grew sloppier as more drinks were consumed. The atmosphere suited Gideon just fine because he could become lost in the crowd.
Yet another disappointing meeting with the newest Bow Street Runner he’d hired had left him in a bitter mood, so much so that several of acquaintances had commented upon his unusually dour demeanor. Of course, he’d brushed them off. He had no desire to discuss the root of his mood, nor did he wish to explain how he’d spent the last decade trying to locate a man who seemed to be a ghost—a specter who shared half of Gideon’s blood. He’d finally tracked him to a Newgate cell more than a decade earlier, but then, the man had vanished. There was no record of a death or release. It was as if the man had evaporated through the stone walls.
He owed it to the man to find him.
Not only that, but after so many years of being alone, Gideon was driven by a primal, desperate need to have kin in his life. The isolation of being the last in one’s line, of sharing blood with no living person, was achingly desolate. For so long, he’d harbored the hope of one day meeting the person who had beenmissing from his life that it felt like slicing off his own limb to cave into the growing despair following failure after failure.
His half brother was out there.
He knew it.
The servant arrived with Gideon’s drink, which he accepted with a flourish and tossed back with aplomb. The burn of the whiskey ran like fire to his gut and consumed his veins until he felt his entire body alight with it. He ached for the numbness it promised.
“When Brinley said you were in a mood, I thought he was being his dramatic self; I see now his description was uncanny.” The cultured voice of Gideon’s longtime friend, Rafe Hart, Viscount Blackwood, came from over his shoulder. The man attached to said voice appeared shortly thereafter, looking impeccably polished, coiffured, and devilishly handsome. His aristocratic features bordered on pretty, and his fashion choices just on the harsher side of dandified. From the curl in his dark hair to the starch in his cravat, the cut of his coattails to the pattern of his waistcoat, everything he did and wore was either envied or emulated by many a nobleman. The constant adulation could make Blackwood unbearable—especially when women practically tripped one another to be the first to grab his attention—but he also possessed a quick wit and an unerring sense of loyalty that made him bearable.
“And what description was that?” Gideon asked, though he was not in the least bit interested.
“Like a recently castrated alley cat—all scowls and grimaces.”
“I beg your pardon?” Gideon’s head snapped toward his friend. He’d had low expectations, but that had sunk them all like a lead weight.
Blackwood lifted an unapologetic shoulder. “Take it up with Brinley. He provided the description; I am merely providing myagreement. Better yet, take it up with yourself. You are the one making the face that is scaring off half of London.”
Gideon sighed. “I am not quite myself, am I?”
“We all have those days,” Blackwood replied nonchalantly as he accepted a drink from a passing servant. A true friend, the viscount would not press him. He, like every other person in their little collection of London’s notorious rakes, had demons they battled each day. The Marquess of Kempton, Lord Pearce Brinley, and Viscount Trenholm were not excluded from this. The more senior members of their group, the Duke of Foxton and the Earl of Prestwich, had once dealt with their own but appeared to be settling in quite nicely with women who both suited them and mended whatever cracks their souls had once possessed. Gideon had never said it aloud, but he thought their state quite enviable—to be cherished and understood and unconditionally loved like that.
This shared damage had drawn their group together and formed their camaraderie. Each had something he wished to outrun, and they were able to do so with the help of non-judgmental friends, diverting adventures, more than a little flirtation with beautiful women, a steady string of dalliances, and good food and drink. They did not need to bare their souls to one another to recognize when one of them needed a little lifting up…which was why Blackwood did not pester him. They merely stood together in that stuffy ballroom, sipping their drinks and surveying the crowd.
Gideon’s eyes snagged on the shimmer of rose-gold hair, and he knew instantly he’d spotted their group’s sole female member—Miss Caroline Wells. She looked radiant as the autumnal sunset in her yellow-gold gown, her smooth, glowing skin, and wide smile that could make a man’s knees unsteady. She was not a conventional beauty, but Gideon had always found her beautiful—more so when he came to know her over the years.
She’d been dealt an unfair hand in life, but he’d always admired how she’d crafted an unconventional life from the ashes of a scandal without so much as a single kind word from her family. She was resilient, witty, adventurous, and slightly wild. She could also drive him to distraction if he weren’t careful.
The two of them had never been more than the closest of friends. In fact, he’d made it his mission to take her beneath his wing when she’d been cast out of her family, and he’d shown her how sometimes friends could be an even more supportive family than the ones into which they’d been born. It had taken time, but Caro had found her stride.
At first, their group had been hesitant to admit a lady into their midst, fearing the dynamics would change. But Caro had proven them all wrong, just like Gideon knew she would. She rode just as hard and fast as they did. She was never one to shy away from a prank or lark. She was always game for an adventure and didn’t become missish around drinking, smoking, or gambling on horses, dogs, or fights. Though—to the best of Gideon’s knowledge—she chose never to take a lover or form a romantic attachment, she never judged them for theirs. (They wouldn’t have been very good rakes if they didn’t, now would they?)
Despite his incessant attraction to her, Gideon had steadfastly never crossed the line of friendship with Caro. She’d had enough poor luck with men in her life, and the last thing he wished to do was destroy the comfortable relationship they’d formed.
“You’re staring at her a bit more forcefully than usual,” Blackwood leaned in and murmured to Gideon.
Gideon snorted divisively. “What do you mean?” Though he knew bloody well what the man meant. Whenever Caro was around, Gideon was hard-pressed to pay attention to anythingor anyone else. His gaze latched onto her, even across a crowded ballroom.
“Caro does look lovely tonight, doesn’t she? That color suits her.”
Gideon narrowed his eyes at his friend. “It does,” he said cautiously. This was not the first instance where one of their friends had attempted to play Matchmaking Mama with the two of them. In fact, Gideon strongly suspected the men were placing bets behind their backs about when he and Caro might cross the line between close friends and paramours; they’d never admitted as much, but he knew them well enough by then to say with certainty that they were hiding something.
Whatever it was, their subtle and not-so-subtle nudges of him in Caro’s direction over the years were beginning to erode his resolve when it came to her.
Caroline’s clear green eyes found his, and Gideon’s pulse thrummed with awareness. When the corners of her mouth lifted in a smile—a smile just forhim—blood began to pool in his groin. He wanted to taste those lips. He ached to bury his face in the honeysuckle-scented flesh of her neck and chest. He needed her to wrap her arms around him and remind him that all was not lost, even though he might have to admit to himself that it was finally time to give up the search for the half brother he’d never known.
Caroline’s body feltwarm and tingly. Perhaps she’d imbibed one too many glasses of Lady Haverford’s notorious punch that evening to calm her nerves. She supposed she should regret it more, but how could she, when the buoy to her courage was undeniable? She had, after all, made a life-altering decision just that day, and she knew, whatever the outcome, she required all the encouragement she could muster to see it through.
Gideon, her oldest, dearest friend, had received his usual invitation to the Haverford event. Curiously, an invitation had also arrived upon her table the following day. It had been years since Caroline had received one, and she knew in her heart that she had Gideon to thank for it. She didn’t doubt that he’d wrangled an invitation out of Lady Haverford—he really could be unbearably charming when he wished to. Blackwood and the others had all received their invitations, so she was certain Gideon, weary of her exclusion, had called in a favor, though he denied he’d had a hand in it.
