CHAPTER ONE

       June 1801, Field House, Staffordshire, England

       He’s a man … Saints above. He’s a man and I want to touch him.

      Emma Langley, who never touched anyone if she could help it, wanted to touch him. More specifically, she wanted to comb her fingers through the fiery strands of his hair and trace a fingertip down the ridge of his rather sharp nose. There were other more startling thoughts tumbling around her head too, but Emma took no account of them. It was quite shocking enough that she wanted to reach out and touch a person’s skin, without contemplating anything more daring.

      Perhaps she’d drunk overmuch wine at dinner. The delightful Mr Aiken had never let her consume more than a sip before being ready to pour her another. But no, she didn’t think the wine to blame. Heavens, if it were that simple, she’d have taken to frequent tippling years ago. Rather, there was something quite special about the man – being, as he was, Lord Darleston, the eldest son of the Earl of Onnerley. A man, if certain recent newspaper epithets were to be believed, known for his perverse tastes and unnatural practices.

      Of course, she gave no truck to such libellous speculation – well, maybe a little. Her father would never knowingly have invited such a wretch into his house. Rather, she supposed Darleston had enemies and slurring a rival’s reputation required little wit or ingenuity. Although – a smile stretched the corners of her lips – perhaps perversity could be attributed to his choice of evening wear. In a room of glorified dandies, Darleston alone wore brocade. Black knee-breeches disappeared into gleaming top-boots. They on their own invited only minor remark – they were in the countryside – but his coat … that was a triumph: ostentatious but not in a vulgar fashion, being formed, as far as she could tell through the glass, from black Florentine silk. It sported huge lapels in contrasting red and every seam, every buttonhole, was edged in gold filigree.

      She wanted to rub up against him and trace every thread.

      Emma looked at her fingers in suspicion; the notion of desiring contact was so very strange to her. Then she curled the digits over her lips to hide her smile.

      ‘Well, sister, what say you? Will any of them do?’

      Emma turned her head as her sister inched closer to the dining-room window. The moment their skirts brushed, Emma recoiled, leaving Amelia in possession of the ledge.

      ‘I should think not, dear heart, for there are only Aiken, Connelly and Bathhouse whom you might consider and none of them to your tastes. The other gentlemen are already wed.’

      ‘Surely, not all?’ Amelia strained onto her toes for a better look. She was a good few inches shorter than Emma, and her view of the interior was largely restricted to the tops of the gentlemen’s heads. ‘Why do you dismiss Bathhouse? Connelly I can understand – he is always so bilious and red about the nose – and I know Aiken is quite besotted with that ninny from the Walshes’ party, but Bathhouse seemed most attentive earlier. And he’s young. That has to count for something, does it not? I shan’t want an old man.’

      ‘Gracious, Amelia! None of them is a day above forty. As for Bathhouse, why, he hasn’t two farthings to his name. He takes work as a tutor. Father would never approve.’

      ‘Well, I shouldn’t mind. At least one might assume he has a brain unlike most of the horrid popinjays I’ve been paraded before.’

      Emma clucked in disapproval, a habit that seemed unavoidable in her sister’s company. Most would assume snobbery to be behind their father’s determination to provide them both with decent matches, but Emma knew the truth was far more practical. He wanted them never to starve – a condition he was more closely familiar with than any of his gentleman companions would believe.

      Amelia continued to bob up and down, trying to catch a proper glimpse of Mr Bathhouse. Emma shook her head in dismay. She would have to maintain a close watch upon her sister and perhaps steer her in another direction. She stepped out of the flowerbed and gave a stamp to remove the soil from her shoes. ‘Come away now, dear heart, it’s time we went in. Father has very nearly finished his brandy.’ He only ever drank one glass and always left a dribble the size of a guinea in the bottom to appease the good-luck fairies, a practice that had apparently paid off. The Hill family fortunes had certainly improved