Prologue

“They make a lovely couple.”

Henrietta Stanton, daughter of the Earl of Crawford, followed her friend’s gaze to the couple whirling about the dance floor—the center of attention.

As well they should be, given that they were the ton’s newest darlings, newly betrothed only a day past: the recently affianced Earl of Cheswick, and his Lady-to-be.

“They are quite a picture,” she agreed. Her gaze wandered to the folk mingling about the edges of the room, taking notes on positions. Whose eyes were following whom, and who was well on their own way to a relationship, as opposed to those who could do with some encouragement. Or gentle discouragement, in some cases.

For all her fondness of the dance floor, it was there, among those watching, that she truly thrived.

“And they look so happy.” Her compatriot of the evening, Eva Darnell, the daughter of a Baron, folded her arms and sighed, bringing her attention back to the couple of the hour.

“Well, they should be.” Henrietta smiled. “You know I would never make a bad match, my dear.”

If there was one thing Henrietta prided herself on, it was her matchmaking skills. Only three years past her first Season, she had become one of the leading matchmakers in high society, and she’d kept the title since. She had a gift, if she were to be immodest, a talent even, for bringing together individuals in successful relationships.

Lord Cheswick and his Lady-to-be were only the latest examples of her meddling, and quite the well-done match if she were to say so herself. Her dance card had the Earl’s name for later in the evening, but she was quite content to wait, more pleased to witness the proof of her triumph than to make her congratulations.

Eva sighed again, her pink petalled lips pursed in a gentle pout. “You do make such good matches, Henrietta. I wish you could make one for me. I’d love to dance like that with a man who loves me.” Her cerulean eyes were wistful as she watched the newly formed couple laughing, the Earl twirling his lady in the middle of the floor.

“I’d no idea you were of the inclination.” Henrietta pursed her lips, considering what she knew of the eligible members of the ton her friend had allowed to dance attendance on her in the past. “What type of man are you seeking?”

Eva blinked, turning her attention away from the floor for the first time that evening. “I beg your pardon?”

Henrietta gave her friend an indulgent smile. “Well, darling, I am the best matchmaker in London. Pick a man, any man. And I will see to it that you have your heart’s desire.”

“Oh, you cannot be serious.” Eva flushed prettily, unfolding her fan to hide the crimson tint that even her expertly applied powders could not conceal on her cheeks.

“But I can.” Henrietta gestured to the throng of glittering persons, the ton dressed in their best evening dress for the party. “’Tis the Season, my dear Eva, a perfect time for putting my skills to use. You have only to tell me who you have your eye set upon.”

Eva’s lips pursed. “Anyone, you say, Henrietta?”

“Anyone. So long as you don’t choose someone completely unsuitable, like your father’s oldest stable hand or some such nonsense.” They both giggled. The stable hand in question was old enough to be Eva’s father himself, and he was quite happily married with his own family, not to mention the other unsuitable facets of his station and temperament.

“Anyone…” Eva tapped her fan to her rose-petal lips, thinking. Then a small mischievous smile bloomed across her face. “Including, perhaps, The Dark Prince?”

“The Dark— You cannot mean the Marquess of Salisbury?” Henrietta raised one dark, well-groomed eyebrow in disbelief. “The one who was announced in London’s pages some months ago, when the old Marquess of Salisbury died? The nephew no one had ever heard of?”

“—or has seen since. They say he’s been in seclusion since he took up the title.”

“Indeed. I had heard something about that.” Henrietta tapped her own fan against her chin, thinking. “He was at war on the Continent, was he not?”

“Yes.”

“And he certainly did not present himself to attend the Season. Caused quite the upset among the ton.” She remembered it clearly. Such a prominent member of the peerage refusing proper introductions for weeks on end… Well, there had been little talk of much else but his scandal.

“Just so. They say he declared he was recovering from the war, and so refused to set any sort of social calendar. Rumor has it that he has not left his country seat, but he has refused any and all invitations or callers. People call him ‘The Dark Prince’, for he is rumored to be fairly melancholy as well as reclusive, though quite well-off.” Eva’s smile widened, a laughing challenge lighting her eyes and banishing any hint of her earlier discontent. “But suppose someone were to want to win his regard. Would you undertake the matchmaking for such a pairing?”

“Well…” Henrietta considered what little she knew of the man whose seclusion had been the source of so much rumor at the beginning of the Season. “He is rumored to be handsome, or so I heard from Lady JoSarah, whose husband went to give the Marquess his greetings and welcomes back to our shores.”

“Yes. Indeed. Hair like the midnight sky and eyes the color of the emeralds, so she said.”

“And I have heard that he has been seen in town on occasion, overseeing purchases and business for his estate. It is rumored he cuts quite the dashing figure. Well-built, and with reasonably good taste in attire.”

Eva flushed again, maidenly modesty coming to the fore. “So I have heard as well.”

“And he is rumored to be of an artistic inclination.”

“Oh, that is no rumor. Do you recall the sculpture newly purchased by Lady Devonshire? The angel in her garden?”

“I do. Was that one of his making?” Henrietta blinked, recalling the statue in question.

It was a beautiful statue. She had seen it herself in the lady’s garden but a week past—one of the first garden parties of the Season. Every fold of marble cloth and every line had been painstakingly and exquisitely chiseled, polished to a glistening luster. The face of the angel was a study in tranquility, serene and majestic and beautiful as it gazed across the expanse of the Devonshire estates, hands outstretched in welcome and protection, wings spread wide as if about to take flight, every feather arduously rendered. “It is quite a magnificent piece.”

“Isn’t it? I have heard that all his artworks, though he hasn’t made many, are the same. Beautiful, soulful. Poetry in stone.”

“That is quite a feat. I must wonder…” Henrietta trailed off.

“Henrietta!” Eva chided her softly and tapped her arm lightly in remonstrance. “You cannot simply fall silent like that. Whatever is on your mind to make you quiet?”

“Lord Salisbury has only lately returned from war, has he not? It begs the question, how does a man pass from the horrors of the battlefield, and come to create such amazing artistic works? One would think that his experiences would influence his art as much as they have apparently influenced his sociability.”

“That is true. I had not thought of that. Artists are supposed to be such sensitive creatures.” Eva furrowed her brow. “To come through the blood and ugliness of a battlefield, and yet still be able to produce such elegance…the Marquess must surely have a soul to match his fortitude in both valor and beauty.”

“He would be a rare man indeed to possess such sensitivity and courage both. A true paragon of nobility.” Henrietta considered her next move. She knew very little of the man beyond rumor, but what little she did know was quite…interesting.

“Paragon indeed. And a pity too.” Eva sighed forlornly.

“Pity? Whatever do you mean?” Henrietta regarded her friend in mild astonishment.

“Henrietta dear, a paragon the Marquess may be, but if it’s so, I think even your best efforts would be doomed to fail. Paragons are simply not the marrying sort. And if he is a paragon, and he were to choose a partner to share his life, I doubt it would be a young, lighthearted lady of the ton. Why, what could two such people ever have in common?”

“Who can say? But there’s no reason to dismiss the idea out of hand, dear Eva.” Henrietta smiled. “Love is a powerful connection. And you know quite well that I, of all people, know how to bring love to bloom between two people, dissimilar as they might seem at first.”

Eva laughed, the cheerful tones drawing the attention of other members of the ton nearby. “Why, Henrietta, surely you cannot be suggesting that you could bring the Marquess to consider matrimony, and among the members of our fair society, no less! Why, the man is near a hermit, however handsome and talented he might be. Even your prowess cannot work with a man who refuses to grace any events and has no social calendar worth mentioning!”

“Can it not? Are you truly doubting my skills as a matchmaker, Eva?” Henrietta swatted playfully at her friend with her fan in mock annoyance.

“Well, let us be realistic, my dear. There are limits to even the best matchmaker’s skills.” Eva’s smile sparkled with mischief. “You must admit that, at least.”

“I’ll admit to no such thing! Why should I admit to a defeat without even a token effort?” Henrietta tipped her head. “Why, I will wager that, should I put my mind to it, I could have the Marquess matched and married within the Season.”

“Within the Season, you say?” Eva arched one perfectly shaped brow in mild disbelief.

“Within three months.” Henrietta tossed her head and straightened her back, quite willing to defend her skills and her reputation. “I’m certain I could achieve such a feat in three months, for I’ve managed other matches in far less time.”

“Oh? And what will the forfeit be, should you fail to find the Marquess his match within three months?”

Henrietta smirked. “Why, what else should I wager? This is meant to be a test of my skills as a matchmaker, no? Why then, should I bet anything other than my ability to continue to use my skills?”

Eva blinked, sly mischief transforming to genuine surprise. “You cannot mean…”

“I can.” Henrietta stood, pitching her voice so that it would be heard by the members of the ton nearby, all of whom were trying to listen without being transparent about it. “Should I fail to match the Marquess of Salisbury within three months, I shall resign my position as a matchmaker in society—and retire from any further attempts to arrange matches of any sort.”

Ripples of sound whispered through the room, and Henrietta smiled behind her fan.

It was a bold statement, to be sure, but then…love was a power that conquered all.

And hers was a power that was well-versed in reading and manipulating the paths of love. Truth be told, she rather relished the challenge.

Now it only remained to choose the method by which she might approach this most reclusive and mysterious Marquess.

Chapter One

He never would get used to the weather, nor the food. It had been four months since he had come to the Salisbury country seat to claim his inheritance and his title. And Daniel Thynne, the Marquess of Salisbury, still found it within himself to be amazed by the differences between the blood-soaked insanity of the battlefield he’d left behind and the refined, tranquil estate he currently inhabited.

“This is quite the arrangement you’ve got here.” Daniel tore his attention from his wayward thoughts and returned it to his guests.

Jackson Fisher and his wife, Patricia. He and Jackson had met during the war, fighting side by side in the heat and horror of the battlefield. Months of saving each other and commiserating over awful rations and guarding each other’s fitful sleep had made them firm friends.

Jackson had only returned home a few months prior, following an injury that had left a permanent scar on his face…and the illness that followed. He was still pale and far too thin, his tailored clothing slightly loose on his powerful frame, but the intervening time between his return and Daniel’s invitation to visit the estate, as well as his recent marriage, had brought some sparkle to his eye and some color to his cheeks.

Jackson chuckled and lifted a glass of the chilled wine they’d been enjoying with their leisurely lunch. “From a lowly lieutenant to a Marquess…you truly do have the best of luck, my Lord Salisbury.”

“Says the man who only recently took the title Duke Merriweather, Your Grace.” Daniel tipped his head in a teasing bow.

“At least I anticipated the title would come to me. But call me that again, and I shall have a quote for the society pages, from my good friend, the Lord Marquess of Salisbury, the next event I attend.”

“Do not dare.” Daniel shook his head. “Enough of that, Jackson, or we shall wind up having more heated words between us. In any case, I’ll not have my brother-in-arms use a title I never knew I was to inherit until a scant few months ago. A man ought not demand formalities of the fellow who half a year ago was wrapping his ribs after an ill-met encounter with a musket shot.”

“Says the man who dragged me through a half-mile of pouring rain in the dark after our horses were shot out from under us.”

“Enough of that sort of talk as well. Men and your war stories…I’ve no stomach for such talk,” Patricia scolded gently as she rose to refill their glasses, her movements quick and graceful as she poured out the wine. “You are both home now, and home you’ll stay. Leave such talk to other times, I beg you. The day is far too fine to spoil with words of war and wounds.”

“You have me there, Duchess.” Daniel dipped his head in a nod, conceding the point with good humor. “It is indeed a fine day, too fine to be darkened by these memories.”

He was preparing to ask Jackson how he found married life when a discreet knock at the door interrupted. Moments later his butler, Walter Danvers, stepped through the door with a low bow. “I beg your pardon for my intrusion, my lord, however…” The butler’s neatly trimmed mustache quivered with suppressed humor, well mixed with exasperation. “I’m afraid we have another…unexpected visitor.”

“Another? And how old is this one?” Daniel sighed and repressed the urge to slouch.

“I would estimate that she is perhaps of sixteen years. Apparently, her carriage has broken down, and she is quite beside herself and in dire need of Your Lordship’s assistance.” There was no mistaking the humor in Danvers’ carefully respectful tones.

“I suppose that is better than the thirteen-year-old.” Daniel sighed again. His gaze flickered over his two guests, both watching him with mildly inquiring glances.

Etiquette would demand that he excuse himself to see to his newest guest and attend to her comfort. Of course, given the situation…

A thought occurred to him, and he smirked. “Very well, Danvers. See the young lady into the front parlor. Have the staff bring out another place setting—no, best to make it two, I suppose. Since the young lady is in such dire straits, she is most certainly in need of a good meal to soothe her anxiety. It would be remiss of me to forbid her hospitality, since we have plenty of luncheon left to us and no pressing plans.” He turned to Jackson. “I trust you have no objections to a fourth, or fifth, at our table?”

“No. Of course not. It is only courteous, as you say.” Jackson inclined his head in answer. “Besides, a fourth will give us even numbers at the table.”

“Very good, my lord. I shall take care of the matter.” Danvers stepped back, shutting the door respectfully behind him.

Daniel huffed out a rueful laugh. “It appears we shall have unexpected company this afternoon.”

“It sounds as if you have become somewhat resigned to unexpected company.” Jackson’s eyes sparkled with mirth. “Are we to take it that these interruptions are somewhat frequent?”

“Near indecently so. This one will be the fourth this week.” Daniel twirled his glass between his fingers with a wry smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“The fourth! What the deuce…”

“I am England’s newest member of the peerage, which supposedly makes of me a most attractive target for young women whose families wish them to marry well.” He grimaced. “It is why I was set on avoiding the Season this year. I had hoped if I made myself less available, I might come to welcome fewer interruptions.”

“That seems not to be the case, if this is as frequent an occurrence as you say.”

“Oh, it is.” Daniel gestured to where the footmen were diligently laying out two place settings. “I’ll wager I can tell you exactly what is going to happen. The young lady will come in, distraught and ready to fling herself upon my person for comfort. Only to be placed at a loss because she did not anticipate your presence. And then, within the half-hour, her ‘brother’ will arrive, ready to defend her virtue and demand I make proper recompense for taking advantage of her distress, said proper recompense being an offer of matrimony to protect her honor.”

“You cannot be serious!” Jackson was clutching hard at the arm of his chair, nearly doubled over with laughter, while Patricia hid a gentle giggle behind her napkin. “It cannot be so bad as all that, surely?”

“A half-crown on the matter.” Daniel fished a coin from his trouser pocket and slapped it on the table.

“I’ll not bet coin. Rather one of your good wines,” Jackson fired back.

“Done then. A bottle of wine against some of those excellent cigars you carry.” Daniel pocketed the coin and sat back just as light footsteps sounded beyond the door.

The door opened, but no sooner had it been pulled back than a young woman dashed into the dining area, golden hair artfully tousled, dress hanging fetchingly off of one shoulder. “Oh, my lord, the most terrible…” She stopped short, her wide, brown eyes taking in not one, but three faces around the table.

Daniel rose smoothly from his seat. “My lady, you are welcome to join us in our repast. I dare say you have need of some refreshment.”

“I…thank you, my lord…” She paused, studying his features.

Daniel sighed inwardly. Had the girl not even possessed the forethought to ensure she could recognize her target? “Forgive me. I am Daniel Thynne, lord of this house. And you are, my lady?”

“Catherine Britmoore, my lord.” She flushed and dipped into a curtsy, finally remembering the manners she’d probably thought she’d not need for this encounter.

Britmoore was not a name associated with any of the peerage. He had done his due diligence on that front, so as to avoid giving insult unnecessarily. He dipped his head in a shallow nod, all that was required of him. “Miss Britmoore, it pleases me to introduce you to my friends, the Duke and Duchess of Merriweather.” He waited until she gave each of them a greeting, then pulled out a chair. “I’m afraid your unexpected arrival has caught us at our luncheon, but please, join us and tell us more about what brings you to my door.” Though I daresay I already know.

            “Oh…yes, thank you…” She settled awkwardly in her chair, clearly uncomfortable. He stuffed down a bubble of satisfaction and politely passed her the platters from which to fill her plate. She took a few bites from each, though it was clear to all that food was not on her mind. She paid as little attention to the small measure of wine he poured for her.

“You were saying, when you entered, that something had happened?”

“Oh…oh, yes! It really was most distressing. My carriage…a wheel cracked and almost caused a frightful accident.”

“That is unfortunate. But surely a young lady like yourself is not traveling alone?”

“Oh, no, of course not.” Miss Britmoore flushed, fingers tangling about her silverware. “It is only that my escort…well, when we saw your estate, he suggested that I come ahead to plead for your aid, while he returned to see that the horses did not bolt or come to mischief.”

“Of course. Quite sensible.” Hardly that. A proper gentleman would have escorted his lady to the door, and made the request himself, rather than send a maid unaccompanied among strangers. “You did tell my butler, I presume?”

“I-I believe so…”

“Then we have but to wait while my men gather the necessary supplies. It is likely to take some time. So please, do refresh yourself while my servants see to the matter.” He watched her lips assume a soft pouting expression no doubt meant to make him feel obliged to do more.

Jackson was turning a peculiar color in an effort to look appropriately sympathetic, and Patricia kept her gaze lowered, though he could see her lips quivering with the effort to refrain from a most unladylike expression of amusement—or expressing a sentiment that was entirely inappropriate to the supposed situation.

Silence fell, all four of them pretending some occupation with their meals. Daniel counted the minutes in his head, watching the girl from the corner of his eye as he chewed absentmindedly at the remains of the salad on his plate.

The clock was nearing twenty minutes since Miss Britmoore’s arrival, and he was about ready to take some form of action, be it polite or not, when a strident voice shattered the uneasy stillness of the dining hall. Seconds later, the door to the dining room flew open and a young man in riding clothes stormed through. “Lord Salisbury! Fie on you for taking advantage of my sister’s distress and having your way with her. I’ll see you do honorably by her, or have you publicly branded the worst sort of…of…”

The young man stopped, eyes widening comically at the sight of not two, but four people sitting calmly around a table, still set with the dishes of a most excellent meal. “I…”

Daniel rose again. “I am the Marquess of Salisbury.” The young fool was a good two inches shorter than he and almost thin enough to be called a stripling, for all he was old enough to shave. “And who might you be?”

The young man’s answer was interrupted by the soprano tones of Miss Britmoore. “Andrew! I told you to wait for at least half an hour!”

“Now see here…”

“Silence.” Daniel stepped forward. Both parties stopped and looked at him. Andrew, whom he presumed to be properly Mr. Andrew Britmoore, the expected brother, flushed violently. “Am I to gather, then, that this young man is your escort, Miss Britmoore?”

“Y-yes. My brother, Mr. Britmoore.” The young lady at least had the grace to blush and turn her gaze to the polished wooden floor.

“And am I to further presume that you are not the victims of an unfortunate happenstance upon the road?”

“Indeed.”

“I see. And yet, your brother bid fair to come into my home and accuse me of dishonorable dealings…dealings which, if I read them aright, would be impossible in a setting such as this, but which you intended to claim I had initiated. After which you would force me to defend my reputation by taking Miss Britmoore to the altar?”

Both siblings had the good sense to color further and keep silent. Daniel fought to keep his expression suitably stoic. “I think, Miss Britmoore, that you and your brother have quite outstayed your welcome. I would ask you to see yourselves out.”

The response was two hurried nods. Andrew Britmoore turned on his heel and strode down the hall as fast as the battered remnants of his dignity would permit, his sister trailing behind him in morose silence.

Daniel sank back into his chair with a huff. “Of all the…”

“Only half an hour?” Jackson’s amused voice broke him out of the mood that threatened to snatch him up. “My word, what have you done to make them think so little of your prowess, Thynne?”

Daniel snorted, his good cheer returning in the face of Jackson’s cheerfully impudent observation. “If the sheets are to be believed, I am as reclusive as a monk, and most likely chaste as one.”

Danvers chose that moment to return, his gaze sweeping the table. “My lord? Your guests have left already?”

“They have.”

“Such precipitous departure. Is another place setting required for the young lady’s father, perhaps?” Beneath the butler’s suave tones ran the same amused tones that colored Jackson’s, and Daniel surrendered to them, sinking fully into his seat with a laugh.

‘There’s no need of that, Danvers. I doubt Miss Britmoore and her brother, if such he is, had the wit to think of such a ruse, given that they had not even taken the time to be sure they knew what I looked like. It is unlikely we’ll see any more of them.”

“Very good sir.” Danvers withdrew.

Jackson sighed dramatically. “Well, then. I suppose it’s a case of my good cigars I owe you.” He rose. “And on that note, I fear it is time and past time for us to be returning home. The nights are still chill enough that I should not wish to be on the road too long after dark.”

“No. You are right at that.” With regret, he rang for the servants to clear away the dishes, while he escorted them to the door. Danvers and the footmen brought their traveling cloaks and hats, while the stable hands brought the small two-person trap around. “I wish you a safe journey home, my friend. And please do come to visit me again sometime in the near future.”

“I shall, now that the weather is becoming more appropriate for travel.” Jackson handed his wife into her seat, then clasped Daniel’s hand briefly before swinging up himself. “I shall bring the promised cigars on my next visit. In the meantime,” he drawled, his eye glittering with humor, “I do hope you have no more damsels in distress and their overbearing siblings knocking on your door.”

“You and I both, though I fear it shall not cease for some time yet.” Daniel smiled ruefully as he stepped back to give Jackson’s conveyance some room. “Go well.”

“And keep safe.” Jackson touched his cap, then flicked the reins to set the horses in motion.

Daniel watched as the vehicle clattered out of sight, then turned and made his way inside. “I believe I shall retire to my workroom for the remainder of the day. Please see to it that I am not disturbed.” Danvers nodded and glided away, leaving him to continue on to what had once been a small sunroom, now converted into his private workroom.

Heavy cloths of canvas covered the floor, and a long oaken table held an assortment of tools. In one corner, an easel held a well-worn sketchbook. And in the center of the room…

In the center of the room stood his latest labor, a glistening block of pale veined marble near his own height and some inches wider. Rough-hewn edges, broken free with the chisel that lay to one side, showed where the top of the block had given way to a more oval shape.

He circled the stone carefully, absently rolling up his sleeves and loosening his cravat, before donning a heavy canvas smock to keep the marble dust off his clothing. His hair was yet short enough that it required no management, though if he did not have it cut soon, he would be in need of a tie to keep it from his face.

Twice he orbited the heavy block before reaching out to grasp the chisel. Then he set it back down with a sigh, rubbing absently at his brow.

It’s not much use, to call myself an artist when I cannot even see the shapes I want within the stone. I suppose it is all the distractions of late. He flicked his gaze over the marble again. God’s breath, but I should not mind such distractions knocking upon my door, if only they brought inspiration with them!

Chapter Two

            Henrietta twirled, drinking her reflection from the mirror, frowning thoughtfully.

It had taken a full week and a great deal of thought, but she was rather proud of the plan she had concocted to engage with the elusive ‘Dark Prince’. It was, she felt, a ruse absolutely certain to capture his attention. But it needed the proper touches, and the proper costume, if she were to make it work.

The proper costume, and not a little audacity, she could freely admit to herself. The plan was not without some considerable risk and would take no small amount of acting skill if she was to make it work.

She twirled again, getting accustomed to the feel of the gown. It was much more plain and had fewer layers than the gowns to which she was accustomed. Hardly a surprise, as she had borrowed it from one of her lady’s maids. The lightness of it felt odd, somewhat scandalous, but it was not uncomfortable beyond her ability to bear.

She examined her hair, pulled into a simple but fetching style that she could arrange herself, if necessary, and the powder she’d applied, a subtle coat to enhance her natural appearance, rather than to alter it.

All in all, it was a far cry from the public appearance of Lady Henrietta Stanton, high society matchmaker. In a word, it was perfect.

She took a bag, in which she’d packed some necessities, for the Marquess resided in his country seat rather than in town, and slipped noiselessly from her rooms, taking care to keep quiet as she maneuvered through the darkened halls of her home. Much of the household was abed, a rarity so early in the evening during the Season, and she’d no wish to raise the alarm.

Good fortune was with her, and she encountered no one as she glided silently down the servant’s stairs and out into the back courtyard, where her favorite coachman stood waiting. He bowed as she approached. “Lady Henrietta.”

“None of that now.” She shook her head. “You may call me Hetty, instead. Hetty Smith. It’s best I get used to a proper name for this guise.”

“As you say, miss.” The coachman, John Thistle, took her bag and loaded it, then handed her up into the carriage. “Though if you don’t mind my asking—are you sure you wish to do this?” Even in the dim glow of the gas lamps and the travel lantern she could see concern in his eyes. “It’s a risky venture you’re taking, and if you’re caught…your reputation…”

“Pox on my reputation! If I cannot undertake this challenge, I shall have no reputation worth mentioning in any case. And I am as sure that this course is correct as I was when I told you to take Sarah for a stroll in the garden last year. And I note you are quite happily married now”

A flush suffused his face. “Mayhap that is true, and I am grateful to you for the advice, my— Miss Smith. But my concern now is your status. ‘Tis one thing to play matchmaker and make excuses for two servants in your own home. ‘Tis quite another to…” He gestured to her outfit. “I can’t say I like you taking such risks.”

“No greater risk than I ran while assisting you.” She put a hand out to stop his protest. “Safe in my own house I might have been, but you cannot think father would have been at all pleased, had he discovered I was permitting the two of you use of my chambers for your trysts.”

John winced, and his shoulders slumped in defeat. “I suppose that is true.” He sighed. “As you will, miss, but I hope you don’t mind, I’ll be keeping my eye on you all the same.”

“I would expect nothing less.” Henrietta paused, looking at his distressed countenance. “I assure you, I do not do this for a lark.” She looked up at the house with a rueful twist of her lips. “I know the ton thinks I am a matchmaker because I like to be in charge of things, and there are few enough occupations where a woman might lead rather than be led. Perhaps that is true, even. But it is not my only reason.” She reached out a hand and touched his shoulder. “You and Sarah are so very happy, are you not?”

“She’s the best thing in my life, and I can only pray I am the same for her.”

“Indeed. Love’s a wondrous thing, and happiness is something everyone deserves. Including a reclusive ‘Dark Prince’.”

“If you say so.” He looked at the darkened house again, then at the lantern. “We’d best be going, if you want to get there and back before the night is gone.”

“Indeed.” Henrietta settled into her seat, and John shut the door. Moments later, there came a soft command, and the carriage rolled silently into the night.

*****

The night was passing steadily, and he had made little progress. Daniel huffed and dragged his now-bedraggled shirt sleeve over his brow.

He’d removed much of the excess marble, leaving something that might pass for a human silhouette, if one were tired enough. But he was no closer to envisioning the details of the form than he had been when he started. He was contemplating seeking his bed in hopes that morning would give him further inspiration, when a quiet knock interrupted his musing. He was almost grateful for the respite as he crossed to the door and tugged it open.

He was rather surprised to see Danvers, wearing an expression of carefully controlled exasperation. “What is it?”

“I’m afraid, my lord, that you have another visitor.” The butler’s voice was calm and controlled, but he could sense its masked irritation.

“Another…? Oh, for the love of England! Another ‘lost young lady’? At this hour?” He ran his hand through his hair, smoothing it down as he stretched his fingers.

“Indeed. She seems to be somewhat bolder than your usual callers.”

“Bolder indeed. I’ve half a mind to leave her on the doorstep or send her to make her own way home in the dark, if she’s so keen. No, don’t.” He waved a hand to stop Danvers from leaving. “I’ll take care of her. I would appreciate if you brought me some warm milk and perhaps a bit of tea for her. I’ll take her to the front receiving room.” He sighed. “Hopefully, this will not take too long.”

“As you say, my lord.” Danvers offered a brief bow, then vanished down the hall.

Daniel scrubbed a hand through his hair, suppressing a groan of frustration. He had little patience for the games of polite society at the best of times, and certainly no patience at all when they insisted on intruding in his life in the most discourteous of ways.

He gave a brief thought to cleaning up, then dismissed it. If the young lady wished to call at an hour when most sensible folk were abed, then she had no room to protest his attire or his appearance. With any luck, the sight of him in shirt sleeves and covered in patches of marble dust would be sufficient to send her on her way without recourse to any further measures on his part.

He took a little extra time, smoothing the irritation from his expression as he arrived at the door. Once he thought he was sufficiently composed, he pulled the heavy oaken panel open…

And stopped, utterly dumbfounded.

The woman in front of him—and she was most certainly a woman—was the loveliest representative of that fairer sex that he’d ever had the pleasure of laying eyes on. Her gown was a muted sage green color, relatively simple in style and cut, but it flattered her slim height—she almost matched him on that score—and showed the curves of her hips and the shape of her well-endowed bosom far better than the richest and most stunning ball gown could do. Dark chestnut hair tumbled over her shoulders in an elegant style, reminiscent of Greek artworks he had seen while he was abroad, or the classical designs that he had been introduced to as part of his education. Her face was a pleasing, softly rounded oval, peaches-and-cream skin and sparkling blue eyes, with a small straight nose and full rosebud lips.

A discreet cough from behind him jerked him from his stupor, and he flushed. “I beg your pardon, my lady. I am the Marquess of Salisbury.”

“Good evening to you, Lord Salisbury. My name is Hetty Smith.”

“Well, please, do come in, Miss Smith.” He stepped aside to allow her into the hall. Danvers offered a silent hand to take her traveling cloak, which she relinquished readily enough. Once the butler had glided away, she turned to him.

“I do apologize for disturbing you at this late hour, my lord—”

“It is no matter.” He gestured. “If you would come with me, we can make ourselves comfortable while we talk.

“As you wish, my lord.”

He was glad to be in front of her as they made their way to the receiving room, as it gave him time to regain some of his composure.

How very typical… I ask for inspiration to knock upon my door—and promptly play the fool by staring and blushing like a boy half my age!

Only a moment ago, he’d been more than ready to send her packing, rather than resign himself to endure her presence and her, no doubt, clumsy attempts to deceive and entrap him. Now he thought he might welcome such attempts, if only she would remain present long enough for him to carve the delicacy of her features into marble, to remain for all time.

Danvers had seen to it that a small fire was laid and wanted only a bit of prodding to flare cheerfully in the hearth. He saw to that, then to making the lady comfortable, and by the time he was seated himself, Danvers had returned with the requested beverages.

He was beginning to wish he’d asked for a glass of scotch rather than warm milk. With some effort, he focused his attention on his guest. “Would you care for some tea?”

‘Thank you, but no, my lord.” She shook her head, which sent the soft waves of her hair dancing prettily over her shoulders. “I should not like to keep you too long from your rest.”

“I thank you for your courtesy.” He hoped she did not hear the edge of sarcasm that sharpened his words. He lifted his cup into his hands, letting the warmth and the faintly sweet scent of the frothy liquid soothe and ground him. “I suppose, given the hour, that your carriage, or whatever means of transport you have, has suffered some misfortune on the road?” He took a breath against the weary frustration that filled him, taking a mouthful of his drink to curb his tongue before he could say anything imprudent.

And he promptly choked at her amused reply.

“Not at all, my lord. My carriage is merely waiting at the end of the drive with my driver. My presence here is quite intentional, I do assure you.”

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