They call him the Devil Earl-a scoundrel and accused murderer who grew up on the violent London streets. A proper young lady risks more than her reputation when consorting with the roguishly handsome Hero Fiennes Tiffin , but Lady Josephine Langford...
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London 1851
It was common knowledge that one never spoke of the devil for fear that in so doing one would attract his ardent attention. So it was that few among the aristocracy spoke of Hero Fiennes Tiffin, the Earl of Claybourne.
Yet, as Lady Josephine Langford stood in the midnight shadows near his residence, she couldn't deny that she'd been fascinated with the Devil Earl ever since he'd dared to appear at a ball uninvited.
He'd danced with no one. He'd spoken with no one. But he had prowled through the ballroom as though taking measure of each and every person within its confines and finding them all sadly lacking.
She'd found it particularly distressing when his gaze had settled on her and lingered a second or two longer than was proper. She'd neither flinched nor looked away-although she'd dearly wanted to do both-but she'd held his gaze with all the innocent audacity that a young lady of seventeen could muster.
She'd taken some satisfaction in his being the first to look away, but not before his strangely green eyes had begun to darken, to appear as though they were heated by the fiery depths of the very hell from which he was supposedly spawned.
Few believed him to be the rightful heir, but none dared question his status. After all, it was well known that he was quite capable of committing murder. He'd never denied that he'd killed the previous earl's remaining son and heir.
That night at the ball, it had been as if the entire throng of guests had taken a solitary breath and held it, waiting to see where he might strike, upon whom he might vent his displeasure, because it had been quite obvious he was not one to exhibit gaiety. And it could only be assumed that he'd arrived with some nefarious purpose in mind, for surely he was aware that no lady in attendance would dare risk her reputation by dancing with him nor would any gentleman have his respectability questioned by openly and willingly conversing with Hero in such a public venue.
Then he'd sauntered out, as though he'd been searching for someone, and failing to find him-or her-had decided the rest of them weren't worth the bother.
That irritated Josephine most of all.
To her immense shame, she'd desperately wanted to dance with him, to be held within the circle of his arms, and to gaze once more into those smoldering green eyes, that even now, five years later, continued to haunt her dreams.
Bringing up the hood of her pelisse, covering her head in an attempt to warm herself as the damp fog thickened, she studied the earl's residence more closely, searching for some clue to indicate that he was home. She wasn't certain that her fascination with him was entirely healthy. As a matter of fact, she was fairly certain it wasn't.
She couldn't say exactly what it was about him that drew her; she knew only that she was irrevocably drawn. Clandestinely, unknown to her family, after her first encounter with Hero, she'd even dared to have invitations to her balls and dinners hand-delivered to him by a faithful servant. Not that he'd ever bothered to acknowledge her overtures or attend her social functions.
