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      For Mora,

      Without you,

       I’d still be waiting around, hoping to be published…

       Without me, you’d be…

      Well, God knows…

      Here’s to obedience and discipleship.

      Contents

      Chapter One

      Chapter Two

      Chapter Three

      Chapter Four

      Chapter Five

      Chapter Six

      Chapter Seven

      Chapter Eight

      Chapter Nine

      Chapter Ten

      Chapter Eleven

      Chapter Twelve

      Chapter Thirteen

      Chapter Fourteen

      Chapter Fifteen

      Chapter Sixteen

      Chapter Seventeen

      Questions for Discussion

      Chapter One

      London, 1814

      T ertius Pembroke, Fourth Earl of Skylar, observed his future bride across the drawing room.

      “She’s a comely lass, isn’t she?” his father, the Marquess of Caulfield, asked in the false hearty tone Sky recognized as the striving-to-please one when he wasn’t at all sure his news would be well received.

      When Tertius said nothing, his father went on. “Look at that porcelain skin, those exquisite arms, the dainty turn of her ankle.” He was positively gushing now.

      Sky surveyed Lady Gillian Edwards, determined to find some fault with his father’s choice. He took a critical appraisal, from the crown of her brunette curls cut in the latest short fashion to the tips of her silver slippers.

      What he found in between was in no way displeasing. Pale skin delightfully tinged pink at the cheeks bespoke untouched innocence. A pleasant tinkling sound reached his ear when she laughed at what the young dandy beside her was saying.

      Comely indeed, he thought, noting the even white teeth.

      “A true English rose,” his father added.

      A low-cut evening gown revealed a creamy bosom. There was nothing inordinately immodest about the fashionable neckline, just enough to whet a man’s appetite. A silver ribbon cinched in the high-waisted white gown.

      “Well, haven’t you anything to say?” his father demanded. “Didn’t I tell you I’d picked the best for you?”

      “So you did.” At that moment, the young lady’s glance strayed to him. The two stared at each other across the room. He weighing, judging. She caught in midsmile, a smile that slowly died as it wasn’t returned, and she stood transfixed, as if uncertain what to do next.

      Then the moment passed. His father nudged him on the elbow. “Come, Tertius. I told the duchess we would be here this evening to present you to her daughter.”

      Skylar made no reply, having become resigned if not wholly convinced of his duty to marry and produce an heir. He’d made it clear to his father earlier that he would commit to nothing until he’d seen the young lady.

      “Duchess.” Bending over her hand, his father greeted the stately woman seated near her standing daughter at the opposite end of the drawing room. “Delighted to see you. As always, you are looking more splendid than all the ladies present.”

      His father’s eloquence grated on Sky’s nerves. He, in turn, bowed over the duchess’s gloved hand.

      “Lord Skylar, my youngest son. It has been long since you last met, nigh on ten years, I believe.”

      “Lord Skylar.” The Duchess of Burnham gave Tertius the barest nod while directing her comments to his father. “I remember. He was making his mark here in London.” The elegant, middle-aged woman appraised him. “You are much changed, my lord.”

      Sky knew the words were not a compliment. “The tropics,” he replied. “They either kill you or leave you a wrecked shell as you see me now.” He gave a thin smile, having learned it was better to preempt an intended insult by stating it plainly. That usually gained one a temporary advantage.

      “You have my deepest condolences on your brother’s demise,” the duchess said in the silence.

      Skylar inclined his head a fraction to acknowledge her remark. He took time to observe his future mother-in-law. She was perhaps in her late forties or early fifties, her beauty skillfully maintained with the aid of cleverly applied cosmetics, her honey-hued hair not revealing any gray.

      He gave his attention to her daughter. Lady Gillian was petite, brunette to her mother’s fair hair and, not quite as slim but shapelier than her mother, dressed in white muslin adorned with silver ribbons. Up close she presented even more distinctly the picture of youthful innocence than she had from across the room. Her pink cheeks contrasted prettily with her dark hair. Her neck, slim