Secret Desires of A Marquess (Secret Desires #1) ON HIATUS

Prologue

He was the Duke of Hartwell. A powerful male that made her shiver in excitement. He was a handsome, dark haired gentleman with equally dark eyes that would made many believe that he was Lucifer the morning star that shone brightly in Heaven until he was cast out and had fallen. He had the face many artists would inspire to sculpt, the high cheekbones that perfectly lines his face shadowed with a gorgeous stubble, his thin lips moved with eloquent words as he spoke to the gentleman beside him unaware that he was being lovingly admired from a far and from a most unlikely lady.

The helpless admirer who pathetically yearned for the handsome Duke of Hartwell (in her case, so she says) was none other that Miss Dionysia Consuela Merton. Miss Dionysia or "Dione" as she kindly reminds this Author to address her as, was a girl in her twentieth year and it was, as she unfortunately told I, her third Season, and was hoping that it did not end terribly as the first two did. Miss Merton told I that it was her mother, the Viscountess Goodwin who dragged her and her younger sister Annette to Almack's as Lady Goodwin was one of the patrons hosting the ball. Lady Goodwin expected a success the way her eldest daughter, Georgette was.

"I tell you," said Dione, "This Season will be a colossal waste of time. It is horrifying enough that I miserably failed the first two Seasons." She slumped her shoulders as if to suggest she was giving up, "Annette is doing far better than me. Look there." She gestured to the direction of her sister.

I turned to see the younger Miss Merton and studied her. Miss Annette Merton was a lovely girl with refine beauty. She was a light blonde angel with light blue eyes. Already she was waving her fan in her face as the gentleman surrounding her talked to her. In my humble option, I believe that Lord Trenton and Viscount Redwall were interested in her income rather than her character.

I turned to Dione after studying her sister and told her that she mustn't give up and that perhaps the third try will be a lucky charm.

Unfortunately, Dione scoffed at this Author's optimism and told I, "I fare better in the country."

I smiled sadly to that and shook my head.

"Annette is far more beautiful than me. Or so that is what Mother says."

I was taken aback. Dione considered herself as not beautiful?

Miss Dionysia Merton was not beautiful in the sense of traditional English beauty, but she was beautiful. She had the most beautiful amber-gold eyes, the color men would be lured and enchanted by, her hair was a chocolate brown neatly pinned and twisted into elegant curls that perched on the top of her head. Her skin was a fair and ivory and dusted lightly with freckles. She wore the latest dress that was a dark silk green ball gown, which suited her short, plump figure.

I shook my head as she clutched her fan too tightly and told her that she will find someone and that someone will love her regardless. Love, I told her, will sneak up to her and it will be unexpected. It will leave you in a raging passion and when it dims down it will leave an everlasting mark.

She looked at me and said, "La, you are so wise. Tell me, have you been in love?"

I have not been in love. I was a simple observer, and was now continuing to account the events in my diary. Dione waited for my reply so I told her. This Author was a keen observer and a spinster.

"But my dearest," said she, "You are not that old." She paused for a moment, her uncertainty getting to her, "are you?"

Five-twenty, told I.

Dione was shocked and asked I how I could be five-twenty when I looked younger.

I thanked her for her kind words, but the youngest daughter I am of a baron, five-twenty in my mother's case was on the shelf

Dione shook her head, and said nothing. Perhaps, she gave up on I.

Now as I account the ball, the Countess of Creston was a fabulously wealthy widow who after refurbishing her dowager house, Creston Hall, held the most spectacular balls during the Season and during Christmas. Lady Creston was an excellent hostess. A widow in her late forties, she dazzled the crowd.

"Look!" gushed Dione as she steered my attention away from the hostess. She was gushing, her pale cheeks tinting color of rose as she giggled in mirth.

Ah. The Duke. He had caught the attention of Lady Eugenia Snowcross. She was the only daughter of the Earl and Countess of Stanford. She was another blonde beauty; that was reported to be an heiress of enormous wealth.

"You dance splendidly, Your Grace," I heard her say

"And you look ravishing, Lady Eugenia," replied His Grace.

She giggled, and said, "I thank you."

Dione looked rather uncomfortable. It looked as if the poor girl was in pain for the love of her life (I am being helplessly romantic with this regard) was completely oblivious to her existence.

A gentleman proceeded to approach us and his eyes, a light blue, were set on Dione. The Marquess of Rothsbey was a handsome man by all counts, heir to his father's dukedom.

"Miss Merton," he said, his cultured smooth voice hinted a faint Scottish accent, "I beg that you honor me with a dance."

Dione blinked and lifted her hand to rest it to her chest. Her lashes fluttering, she said, "I would be honored, Lord Rothsbey."

As she took Lord Rothsbey's arm, he escorted her on to the dance floor and they started dancing.

It was then that this Author made a pleasant discovery. As our dear heroine danced with Lord Rothsbey, I noticed that His Grace, the Duke of Hartwell had eyes for her. He watched her with such intensity that I felt ashamed that I was accounting this into my diary. This Season was going to be an interesting one; Dear Gentle Readers, and I wonder if Dione has an idea what was yet to unfold

After all, it would make an interesting story....