Chapter One

Knight to H3?

Her father’s knight was now facing her king. One more move, and she would be in line for a frontal attack from the knight and the bishop at F7. Phoebe smiled. In moving his knight to that spot, her father had opened his defense, leaving her free to attack.

Phoebe stared at the board closely. Her father had made a blunder, and she intended to take advantage of it.

But what move to make?

Conscious that she may fall into a yet unseen trap if she wasn’t careful, she cast her eyes on the pieces arrayed as though in battle formation. A mistake now could tip the game against her. Studying the pieces for some inspiration, she folded her hands into a steeple and balanced her chin on it, her mind quick at work.

“Your move, ma chérie,” her father whispered.

“I am well aware, Papa. I need to think.”

“You can take all the time you want; it changes nothing. This game ended when you lost your queen.” He smiled as he leaned forward. “Admit it, my dear; I have won.”

Phoebe smiled back as she imagined the look on his face when she won in the end, as she generally did. The smirk on his face would fade into astonishment, then pride. Perhaps then he would not be so quick to dismiss her in the next…

Then she saw it.

Holding her breath, she moved her hand towards the chessboard and touched her pawn, pushing it one step diagonally…

And claimed his queen.

Her father’s eyes widened like saucers.

“How did I miss that? That was most unfair, ma chérie; were you waiting for that blunder?”

Phoebe smiled enigmatically. “You should know better than to underestimate me, Papa.”

A few more moves, and she had him in checkmate. He turned his king down in resignation with a sigh, his face weary.

“What is wrong, Father? It was just a game; we can play another if you like.” Even as she spoke, Phoebe knew it wasn’t the game that had her father bothered. They had always been well matched in chess, but he usually made her work harder to beat him. He had not been himself recently and it was beginning to worry her.

The look of his face was hollow. His eyes were unseeing as they remained on the board, his body leaning forward and his shoulders slouched.

He picked up her queen, twirling the piece admiringly in his hand. He had often called her his ‘petite reine’—little queen, and she always felt pleasure at the endearment. Reaching across the board, she touched him, taking his hand in hers.

“What is troubling you, Papa? You have been distracted lately.”

“I have? How so?” he asked.

“You have been playing differently. I thought perhaps you let me take your queen on purpose in the last game. But I can clearly see your mind is elsewhere. Won’t you tell me what is causing your worry?”

He sighed. “You know me too well, ma petite reine.” He had used the French inflection, a token of their many holidays in their country estate in Ville Lux de Borgamduc. Phoebe had never acquired the throaty rasp of her mother’s French heritage but enjoyed hearing her father use it. When they shared moments like this, hearing it from him was akin to being part of something special, something private that was entirely theirs.

“That I do.” She held onto his hand, waiting for him to answer her questions.

It became clear to Phoebe that whatever troubled her father was important. He seemed reluctant to tell her, but she knew he couldn’t keep secrets from her. He had vowed to her a month after they had shed their tears over a tombstone that he would never hide anything from her.

“I love you, ma chérie. More than anything in this world. And it is out of love that I must do this. For you.”

“Do what, Papa? Goodness, you are giving me a fright.”

“Let us play again,” he said. “I believe you owe me a rematch. Then we can discuss the matter.”

She pursed her lips. Her father could be intractable, and she knew she would gain nothing if she pressed further. Realizing the only way to make him confide in her was to indulge him, Phoebe began rearranging the pieces on the board. He placed her queen reverently on the board when the other pieces were arrayed.

He nodded, and she made her opening move.

A quarter of an hour later, she saw him relax as the game progressed. He was calmer, his body less taut, and she could see the twinkle return to his eyes. She drew her bishop from his territory; her father was intelligent—the most intelligent man she knew. He would know if she allowed him to win.

Instead, she gave him chances so subtle that he would never discover her strategy.

He looked at her suddenly, his finger hovering over his knight, and he sighed. At the sound, she looked down at his hand, not wanting to seem too eager. “I have decided to return to London. We shall depart in two days.”

She paused, turning her gaze from his hand to his face; there was no hint of indecision, his mouth set in grim determination. She moved her king away from his check and sat back to look at him intently.

“May I ask what has led you to this decision? I recall you promising Lord Allendale we would visit his estate Saturday next.”

He shrugged. “Matters have arisen that compel me to return. One of which concerns you. I had an interesting chat with Lady Fumberton and…”

Phoebe could not suppress her groan. Nothing good ever came out of a discussion with the ‘Grand Honorable Lady Fumberton,’ as she had heard her being addressed once. The woman had firm ideas on how a lady should act, and Phoebe, without a mother to guide her, had found herself the unwilling recipient of the other woman’s full attention far too often.

“And what did that esteemed lady suggest this time? New rules for sitting at dinner, or how I should spend more time practicing the pianoforte?”

Her father chuckled. “You could learn a great deal from Lady Fumberton. She is quite sharp, that one. But that is beside the point. She made an observation I find I must agree with.”

He faced her squarely, the game forgotten. “I have thought much of her suggestion and have decided that you should take part in the coming London Season.”

Phoebe was astounded into silence. This could not be happening. She had rejoiced when she and her father departed London for their country estate two years ago. The country air had been refreshing after the stifling atmosphere of London Society. She had thought she would never have to return to that uncomfortable existence.

Her first Season had been disappointing, to say the least.

She was supposed to have been a great success. She was young, beautiful, the daughter of an earl, and from one of the most illustrious families in Society. Everyone expected there to be throngs of suitors calling at her father’s house.

To her disappointment, she had had watched while other debutantes were courted and soon paired. She was surprised at the turn of events. She had thought that they were all fairly equal in birth, temperament, and looks, but while other became engaged swiftly, Phoebe had not had a single suitor.

She was labeled a hopeless wallflower, had retreated into herself, and was thankful when the Season ended and she could return to the country. Her father had tried to cheer her, promising to arrange for her to wed some noble of his acquaintance. Horrified at the notion of her father seeking a suitor for her, she refused, asking him for a respite from the marriage mart. He had acquiesced, and she hoped the matter would not arise again.

It seemed time had run out.

“You realize that all of London Society will have wondered where you have been these past two years. It is time for you to make your grand return to Society, Phoebe Lovelace.” He gave her a charming grin.

Phoebe was unamused. “And Lady Fumberton is responsible for this turn of events. Perhaps she should focus her energies on finding a suitor for her own hopeless…”

Her father narrowed his eyes at her, and she fell silent at once. She had pushed too far.

“It is my own fault. I have let you have your way for too long, and you have forgotten your manners. Perhaps a stay with Lady Fumberton would help you remember them.”

Her look of horror had him smiling again. Grateful for the change in his countenance, she bent her head, preferring to look at the chessboard.

“Need I point out that you are twenty years of age? The lady is correct. At the very least, you have to try again.”

“Why must I try again. Do you wish to see me leave you so soon?”

He shook his head. “You cannot stay with me forever, ma chérie, no matter how much I may want that. You must get married and have your own family. But first, you need a suitor, and for that you need to make an appearance in Society. You do not wish to become a spinster, do you?”

Perhaps it wouldn’t be so bad, she thought. At least she would be free. Lady Gladwyn was a spinster, but she lived the magnificently scandalous life of an artist. Imagine traveling alone to all the cities on the Continent, without a care for the wagging tongues of the ton.

But she knew she could never be bold enough to emulate that woman. It would hurt her father too much if she lived outside Polite Society.

Instead, she hung her head in submission. “I do not wish to become a spinster. But I also have no wish to be paraded in front of the dandies of London, hoping one will take pity on me and offer marriage.” She took his hand in hers. “Can’t we stay here a little longer, Papa? You would miss the country dreadfully.”

“I would. However, it is more important that you make a match before it is too late. I promised your mother that I would ensure your happiness with a fine match worthy of you.” He had a sad expression on his face as he spoke.

Phoebe felt the stirrings of guilt. Perhaps she had been selfish. Surely, she could endure the Season long enough to please her father. At his mention of her mother, she felt tears at the back of her eyes. She missed her mother, of course, but her father had been the one constant for her entire life. She would do anything for him, even this.

“I have a condition,” she said, and her father looked at her eagerly.

Her father waved his finger. “Careful, ma chérie, that you do not ask for too much.”

She smiled. “Will you promise to walk with me at least once a week at Queen’s Park? I so loved the times when you took Mama and me there when I was little.”

A wistful look came over her father’s face. “Sometimes, I feel as though I can hear her voice, and I look around for her.” He reached over to run his fingers down her cheek. You look so much like her.” A knock at the door interrupted the moment.

“Enter!” Phoebe heard her father say.

The door opened, and Mrs. Coving entered the room. Folding her hands, she curtsied low as she stood before them. “My lord, my lady, your supper is ready.”

“We shall be down momentarily,” her father said, “Thank you, Mrs. Coving.”

Mrs. Coving bobbed again and left.

Turning to her, her father asked, “What say you, mon gateau? Will you go with me to London?”

She made a face. “So now I am your cake? What manner of cake? I hope you are not thinking of me as a fruitcake!”

“Ah! Mon sucre, then?”

“Oui. Sugar is better, for it is always sweet and untainted by other flavors. And yes, I will go with you to London.” Despite her reservations, she was willing to try, for her father.

His grin was infectious. “This makes me so happy, ma chérie. I promise you the best of everything.”

Her eyes lit up. “Anything I want?”

“Perhaps. For now, I shall get you a new mare to ride in Hyde Park.”

She clapped her hands excitedly.

“This will be wonderful,” her father continued. “You will be a great success this Season. I just know it.”

Her father spoke of all the dresses he would buy her. Of the balls and many suitors. Of the thrill of being courted and all the flowers that would grace their home once the young bucks of London discovered what a treasure she was. She could imagine it all but did not have the same faith in her ability to charm that her father had. She would try for him, though.

“Shall we retire to dinner?” she asked, pushing her anxieties aside.

He looked up at her. “Yes. But first, we must finish our game.”

Phoebe scoffed. “I have already defeated you.”

“A mare and a new necklace if you win.”

She smiled slowly, confidently, as she moved her queen past his flanks to capture the pawn covering his king.

“Checkmate!”

Chapter Two

Fingers sliding down his chest stroked him lightly. He could hear her voice in his ears, her hand snaking down and scraping her nails on his thighs as she brushed her other hand against his erection.

His breathing was harsher now.

He froze as her hand wrapped around his throbbing erection and squeezed. Her hand was soft but firm, sending waves of pleasure through him as she stroked. He could not see her face, but he felt her, the torment of her hands on him, and his body tightening as his climax approached….

He awoke.

Skin slick with sweat, he could feel the evidence of his dream bulging proudly. Under the sheets, he knew he was naked, and the softness of the sheets against his bare flesh was arousing.

He opened his eyes gingerly, the rays of the morning light shining brightly through the open curtains.

Sitting up abruptly, he was surprised at an unfamiliar weight around his midsection and looked down. A leg lay across him, and his eyes followed the uncovered flesh up to shapely thighs and…

Damn. How much had he had to drink last night that he had ended up falling asleep here? Never before had he been so careless.

Swearing to himself, Lord Carter Ravenel, twelfth Duke of Ravenwood, rake, rogue and sexual conquistador of London’s finest belles, tried to lift the leg that encumbered him from leaving the bed.

He hoped to escape before waking the lady. Wanda Finch, the Countess of Firanwood, was the last person he should have let his guard down with. What the hell had he been thinking, getting entangled with her again? She was an adequate lover, more than adequate, to be sure, but she had trouble separating sexual desire from romantic feelings. The last thing he needed was more histrionics from the woman, and in her husband’s house. Why had he allowed her to ply him with brandy the night before, knowing he would succumb to her salacious suggestions?

He forced himself to slow down. If he moved too fast, his companion would awaken, and he didn’t want to deal with the scene that would follow. Gently, he thought to himself.

The leg moved of its own accord as the sleeping woman turned in her sleep. Her back was to him, and the sight of her bare derriere caused him a moment’s pause as his member throbbed. She had a fantastic arse, but he needed to leave immediately.

Stifling a groan, he began to move slowly out of bed when he felt a hand on his arm.

Blast!

Cursing silently, he closed his eyes, hoping she was still asleep.

“Carter?”

Too late now. He turned to face her, pulling the sheets up to hide the evidence of his arousal. Her eyes followed the movement, and her hand reached out to tug at the sheets.

“What are you hiding down there, Your Grace? Don’t tell me you have grown shy? Or are you playing coy?” She was already rising, her tongue darting out to lick at her lips. She pushed him on his back and straddled him.

“Wanda,” he began patiently, “It is morning. I must be getting home.”

She ignored him and trailed her hands down his chest, her fingers tracing small circles on the hard planes.

“Never say you are tired of me already. I will never tire of you. I am yours,” she tweaked his nipple, “always and forever.”

He disengaged her hand gently. Her declaration had killed any lingering arousal he might have had. He had to be cautious in rebuffing her advances. Wanda was as unpredictable as a summer storm.

“I believe you stood up in a church and pronounced to the world that you belonged to another, my lady. I must depart before your husband returns.”

She folded her hands on her chest and pouted.

“Have you forgotten so soon? I told you, my husband is away. He shan’t be back until next week. We can spend the next five days in this bed indulging our every fantasy,” she purred.

“I’m afraid that is not possible,” he said, rising. “I must leave now. I have an appointment with Leona, and I don’t wish to be late.”

“And your sister is more important than me?”

Ignoring her, he pushed her gently off him and got up. After a quick glance around the room, he found his discarded clothes and began to dress.

“Why don’t I come with you to your appointment? I would love to see your sister.”

Carter stopped fastening his breeches and turned wide eyes to her.

“You want me to bring you into my sister’s home? As whom, my married lover? That is absurd, Wanda. What we sometimes do in bed has nothing to do with my life or family. We have enjoyed each other’s bodies, that is all.”

She folded her arms across her bare breasts. “I want more, Carter. Why can’t I be a bigger part of your life?”

Sighing, he threw his shirt over his head and sat down on a settee to pull on his boots. “You are married; there is nothing more to be said. I have enjoyed our dalliances, Wanda. But questions such as these show me that our time together must come to an end for good. I am sorry if that pains you, but it is time to part ways.”

Without giving her a chance to react, he stood and strode out the door. He could hear her outraged shriek as he hurried down the stairs and out of the back door to the mews. Perhaps he could have been a little kinder to her, but in all honesty, he had grown tired of her clinginess. Making a clean break was best for them both.

Once he reached his carriage, he hailed his driver, Thomas.

“Good morning, Your Grace. Will we be heading straight for your sister’s home? Or do you wish to stop and change?” his coachman asked, pointedly looking at Carter’s disheveled clothes and messy hair.

Blast it. The man was right. He could not arrive on Leona’s doorstep dressed in last night’s rumpled attire, smelling like sex.

“Home first, if you please, and make haste,” Carter replied as he climbed into the carriage.

An hour later, he was on his way to Watersdale Manor. The weather was warm, and the sun stood high in the sky when Thomas halted the carriage outside the manor’s gates. A footman hurried to open his door. Carter climbed down the carriage steps.

“Thank you,” he said, walking past the man to the front door of Leona’s mansion. Her butler bowed deeply when he ascended the steps.

“Welcome, Your Grace. We have been expecting you.”

Carter nodded slightly. “Where is my sister?”

“Follow me, please.” The butler led him through the halls into a drawing room at the back of the manor. Alone in the room, Carter looked at the furniture and trappings on the walls. Leona had been fortunate. She had married the Marquess of Watersdale in her first Season as a debutante. The marquess was both wealthy and well respected. It was a brilliant match, if not one of love.

The significant challenge to their marriage was that the man was never around; he went abroad often, leaving Leona alone in their grand home. While his sister would occasionally complain of being left on her own, Carter secretly believed she enjoyed the solitude her husband’s frequent absences afforded her.

If he had been in her place, he would have thrown scandalous balls that would be talked about for years, showing the ton that she had no problem being neglected by her spouse. But that was not his sister’s way.

Picking up an antique dagger displayed on the sideboard, he held the blade up to the light streaming in through the open French doors and admired its craftsmanship. The knife was sheathed in gold, with tiny precious stones set into the curved hilt.

A gift fit for a king.

A sound behind him made him turn around.

“That is an ancient Egyptian mummification blade. It was a gift from Sir Oswald Cromsby.”

Leona stood in front of him in a casual garden dress with her hair down. She looked different. Out of the stiff formal gowns he often saw her wearing, she appeared more youthful, carefree, like the little girl he had taught to fish so many years ago.

He put the knife back in its place and smiled at her.

“Hello, little Sister. How have you been?” he asked, walking to her to hold her hands in his.

She took a step back, her gaze assessing.

“What is the matter, my dear? Have I done something to upset you again?”

She frowned, her eyebrows raised. “Did you not get my invitation, Carter? It was sent a week ago.”

He grimaced. In truth, he had rarely been home of late, preferring to spend his time on more pleasurable things than meetings with his steward and sifting through endless piles of correspondence.

Seeming to read his mind, Leona added, “You haven’t bothered to go through your invitations, have you? Why are you so intent on drinking, gambling, and cavorting your way through all of London?”

Her words were censorious, each one like a lash. “You make drinking, gambling, and cavorting seem like bad things,” Carter quipped, hoping his irreverent smile would melt her ire. “What was the invitation for?”

“Why are you late?” she countered.

He sighed. “I apologize. Something came up that I had to sort out. What was the invitation for?”

“A party for mother’s birthday, which you would have known about if you had read the letter I sent with the invitation.”

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