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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Hero sat at the desk in his study, the taste of whiskey still bitter on his tongue, his gaze focused on the invitation resting in front of him.
It had been more than a week since his visit to the Great Exhibition, a week during which Josephine had seemed to distance herself from him. They rarely spoke in the coach anymore. Their meetings didn't reflect awkwardness or unfriendliness, but he did sense a strain in their relationship. He suspected it had more to do with the kiss in the library than their tour of the Crystal Palace. She'd been pleasant enough there, probably because she'd felt safe with the crowds and the lack of shadows.
He knew no lessons would take place this evening. Mabel had seemed quite relieved at the prospect of a night without learning the intricacies of his aristocratic life. By now, shouldn't she be more at ease with the notion of becoming his wife? He'd always envisioned his life with her, living in this house, sharing the small and mundane details of his day. He saw them with children. He saw himself, at long last, being happy.
He was so damned tired of being alone, of snatching moments with his friends around a gaming table, of knowing they were no more comfortable in his world than he was.
None of them was like Josephine, comfortable with dinners, balls, and morning calls. They didn't carry themselves with the cool confidence that she did. They didn't challenge him at every turn. They'd stopped considering him their equal when he stepped onto the nobility's pedestal. It was subtle, the discomfort they each exhibited around him.
Hunter always reminded him that he wasn't the rightful heir.
Jim, always doing Hero's bidding, regardless of the hour, as though it were Hero's right to expect a man to live his life inconveniently to please him.
Bill never failed to come when called, take care of business, and then leave. Never lingering for a sip of whiskey, never sharing the burdens he must surely carry as a purveyor of life and death.
And Mabel, terrified of becoming his wife, not because of the intimacies they'd share, but because of the daily struggles they'd face, because of the damned balls they might be required to attend.
Josephine's invitation sat there, mocking him, mocking his life, daring him to show his face-
Damn her!
He poured more whiskey into the glass, brought it to his lips, inhaled the sweet aroma of courage...and slowly set the glass back down. He picked up the invitation and ran his finger over the lettering. Had she experienced discomfort when writing it? Did she want him there that badly?
He thought of the night they'd played cards.
Obviously, my lord, you don't know what I'm thinking.
But he knew what she was thinking when she'd written his name across her fine invitation: that he wouldn't show.
