Chapter One

      Perfectly positioned to view one of the ton’s fairest sons, Ellen’s eyes were drawn from Lord Gainsborough’s playing cards to the man seated across the table—Lord Edward Marlow, the second born son of the tenth Earl of Barrington. He was newly in town and therefore a novelty, an enigma. Every mistress and courtesan in the room had been watching him all evening and she was no exception.

      Lord Edward’s long, manicured fingers moved, poising above his cards. Ellen openly stared, the low light in the room and its stale hazy air, thick with tobacco smoke, hiding her scrutiny from the watching crowd.

      His hair was dark brown and gentle curls tumbled from his crown, licking his forehead and the high collar of his black, tailed evening coat, Brutus style. In the candlelight thrown by the chandelier above, his hair glistened with a variety of rich, roasted coffee bean shades.

      His head lifted and she indulged her eyes with his severe yet perfect, profile. He exuded authority. The man was sleek strength and sophistication. The muscle of his jaw tight, his lips rose as if to smile, but hesitated as though some thought stopped him, and she saw doubt or indecision pass across his expression. Then his eyelids lifted and his dark, intense gaze clashed with hers, a pale blue, more like slate-grey.

      Embarrassed and a little flustered, Ellen’s appraisal fell to his hands.

      His fingers teased out a card and threw it to the table while she felt his gaze burn into her.

      Desire stirring, she pictured the pleasure those fingers could give a woman and the air in the room was suddenly hot and thick, despite the cool winter night outside.

      Ellen lifted her open fan and fluttered it gently to cool her skin as her gaze drifted back to his face. He was still watching her. One dark eyebrow rose and his broad lips smiled. Her gaze hovering on his, she mirrored his smile, her heart pounding as though she was already coupling with him. She imagined his mouth on hers and a hot blush touched her skin. The sweeps of her fan increasing, her imagination drifted on towards indecency—impossibility—picturing tangled limbs and warm flesh.

      Light caught the jet-black pools in his eyes, as though he saw the pictures forming in her thoughts and his captivating smile twisted with implied agreement. It turned his features from handsome to utterly devastating.

      A hot flush spread like a caress down her throat to her breasts and lower, racing across her skin.

      “I shall raise you a hundred, Marlow. Will you match me?” Lord Gainsborough’s brusque challenge sliced through the