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  The Edgebourne household was, in general, an informal one. Having grown up here after the deaths of his parents, distant Edgebourne cousins themselves, Jack was familiar with both the written and unwritten rules that governed the most influential home in London. Which was why he was surprised to be caught with his feet on the table by Robert Dalton, the Duke’s youngest son.

  “Hullo, Jack,” Robert said, helping himself to bread and cheese from the sideboard. “Goodbye, Jack.” He made as if to leave the room as silently as he’d entered.

  “Oh, no you don’t.” Jack’s feet hit the floor, and the plate he’d emptied of food rattled on the table. “What the devil are you doing here, Rob? You’re supposed to be at Oxford.”

  Robert paused in the doorway and shrugged. “I’m not.”

  Jack frowned at him. Ten years younger than his elder brother Thomas, who was Jack’s closest friend, Robert was a quiet young man who generally behaved, appeared when he should, and kept out of trouble. Jack was deeply suspicious of him immediately. “What have you done?”

  Robert blinked slowly at him, a move Jack recognized as perfected by the youngest Dalton, Genevieve, when she was up to something. “I beg your pardon?”

  “Robert. Why are you here?”

  “That’s an interesting question,” Robert said. “Have you paused to wonder why any of us are here?”

  “No. I’m too busy interrogating my cousin, who’s supposed to be at school. Learning philosophy, apparently.”

  “How strange,” Robert murmured. “Perhaps you should pause and think about some of life’s greater mysteries instead.” He gave Jack an angelic smile and then bolted, narrowly evading the hand Jack threw out to grab his sleeve.

  In a spurt of annoyance, Jack summoned magical energy and sent a sharp gust of wind to muss the lad’s perfectly-styled hair, the most punishment he could muster without undue exertion. Unlike his older brother, Robert had the practiced tailoring of an up-and-coming dandy. Jack suspected the lure of the ladies had brought him sniffing round London for the season, school or no school. The Season had many rewards for an enterprising young man, as he recalled.

  Of course, now that he’d been saddled with a title, the Season was going to be nothing but torture. All the ladies who’d dallied cheerfully with him while they dangled for Thomas and Duncan’s titles would be hinting and flirting their way toward marriage. With him. He shuddered.

  “Hello, dear.” The Duchess’ familiar voice warmed him, as it had since he had been a lost boy clinging to the life raft of maternal love she’d thrown so recklessly to him as a new bride herself. “I didn’t know you were back.”

  He rose and kissed her hand. “Hello, Your Grace.” She raised an eyebrow at him, and he smiled involuntarily.

  “How was Cornwall?”

  “Rugged,” he said, pulling out a chair for her and waiting while she seated herself. “May I serve you something?”

  “Coffee, please,” she said. “I’ve just received a very strange letter.”

  For the first time, he noticed that she was carrying a letter, a fine piece of expensive paper with elegant script in perfectly straight lines across it. She laid it down on the table and frowned at it, then raised her head as he placed a steaming cup in front of her.

  “Who’s it from?” he asked.

  “Lady Morehouse.”

  His brows rose. “That dragon? I didn’t know you knew her.”

  “She was . . . a mentor, I suppose,” the Duchess said. She didn’t look as though it was the happiest of memories.

  “A mentor?”

  The Duchess of Edgebourne sat back in her chair, her blonde curls spilling perfectly over her shoulder. She appeared barely old enough to be a mother, much less a mother of seven, foster children or not. “When I came out, my father wanted me to make a very good match.”

  “You married a duke, as I recall,” Jack said dryly. “Seems like he got his wish.”

  She smiled. “Papa had no use for poor Andrew at the time, duke or no. He wanted somebody older, more powerful and politically relevant.”

  “Politics change.”

  Her smile turned smug. “Indeed they do.” The Duke of Edgebourne was as relevant as the London air supply these days, and Jack didn’t see that changing anytime soon.

  “So where did the indomitable Lady M come in? I’ve met her a few times, but she hasn’t any use for me.”

  She rolled her eyes. “She will now.”

  “Because of the title?”

  “She gave me all the lessons in social order my father could have asked for. She knows everyone and everything, I think.”

  “And here I thought that was you,” he murmured. The Duchess was well-known for having her fingers firmly on the pulse of society.

  “Where do you suppose I learned it?”

  “So she was to help you catch a husband your father approved of?”

  “Mmm,” the Duchess said. “Although she didn’t disapprove of Andrew at all, as I recall.”

  Jack snorted. “A duke’s a duke.”

  “She did quite a bit to facilitate the match, in the end,” the Duchess said. “I’ll always be grateful for that, at least.”

  “What does she want?”

  The Duchess frowned at the letter again. “That’s the strange thing. I’m not quite sure. Her wording is so vague that all I know is that there’s some kind of problem involving magic, and it’s somewhat urgent but requires discretion.”

  Jack sat forward. “Well, that’s intriguing.”

  She smiled. “It’s a good thing you’re back. I think I would have sent for you anyway. This seems like your sort of thing.”

  “I’ll take anything to distract me from pig breeding,” he said.

  “Pig breeding?”

  “Please, don’t ask.”

  Chapter 3

  “Lord Rothwell to see Lady Morehouse on behalf of the Duchess of Edgebourne,” Jack recited glibly to the starched butler who met him at the door. The title tripped off his tongue smoothly, and he hated how easy it was to say. If only they’d given him a Lordship like Strangletooth, or Blipwield. Then he could properly resent even the pronunciation.

  The three women who rose to greet him when he entered the parlor were a study in contrasts and similarities. The oldest—Lady Morehouse, presumably—had steel-gray hair twisted up into an uncompromising bun. This intimidating hairstyle rested atop a face reflecting more than a trace of what must have been great beauty in her youth. The lady was still possessed of fine eyes and a straight, firm nose over full lips that were currently compressed into a thin line, matching the tone of her hair.

  The youngest of the ladies was a true beauty, much like her elder. Rich golden hair elaborately styled to look careless, with perfect curls bouncing on her shoulders and delicate brows over thickly-lashed blue eyes. Porcelain skin, lush figure, the lot. Jack was unmoved. Beauties were dangerous.

  The last woman was the one who intrigued him. She rose more slowly than the other two from a seat in the corner, studying him as though she didn’t expect him to study her back. Here was a woman used to being invisible, he suspected, and who used it to her advantage. Judging by her placement in the room, none of them thought this interview had anything to do with her. Jack found himself possessed by a strong urge to make sure that it was all about her before he left.

  She had dark-brown hair pulled up into a simple, elegant style, with a few tiny wisps coming loose around her ears. Equally dark-brown eyes examined him from under lashes as thick as her sister’s—for they must be sisters. The resemblance was too strong for anything else, though their wildly different coloring might have fooled a more casual observer. Both had the same full lips, straight nose, and pronounced cheekbones covered in perfect fair skin. This sister, though, was tall where th
e younger was short, willowy where the other was curved. Were they to get closer than a room’s width apart, she would be of a height with him. In short, she was just his type. Too bad he was here on a different errand. Ladies—especially young, single ladies—were off limits.

  “Thank you for coming,” Lady Morehouse said. “We all appreciate it.” By the expressions on the two younger ladies’ faces, this wasn’t necessarily the whole truth, but he let it slide.

  “Happy to be of assistance, my lady,” he said with a bow. “Captain Jack Boone, at your service.”

  “I thought you were Lord Rothwell now.” Lady M’s voice sharpened significantly, her disapproval wafting across the room.

  He aimed his best winning smile at her, tamping down his annoyance. “I’m so new to it that I sometimes forget, my lady.”

  “It would be wise to remember,” she said.

  “I’ll keep it in mind.”

  “I asked for help because my great-niece has found herself in a predicament, and I thought that your family might know of the best solution. Now that the Duchess has seen fit to send you, I see that I was right,” Lady Morehouse said, a strangely triumphant glint in her eye.

  ~ ~ ~

  Kate sank back into her chair, watching Lord Rothwell’s—Captain Boone’s?—mobile face change as he listened to Lady Morehouse. He was devastatingly handsome, really, with sandy-brown hair that curled elegantly over his brow and unusually slender, pointed features. His face was almost foxlike, and the deep wrinkles by the side of his lips indicated that he smiled a lot. Hazel eyes flickered between Lady Morehouse, Alicia, and herself, and when they landed on her she wondered if she was imagining the warmth and curiosity in them. This interview was certainly not about her. This man was somehow related to the Duke and Duchess of Edgebourne. Surely he had the magical resources to help her sister.

  But Lady Morehouse wasn’t asking for magical assistance, Kate realized with growing horror. She was lecturing Lord Rothwell, who was apparently new to his title, about his marital duty?

  “So you’ll see that it’s the perfect solution,” Lady Morehouse said finally, gesturing broadly to Alicia, who was beet red but somehow managing to hold her temper. “You need a wife with the appropriate bloodlines, quite urgently, and an heir.”

  “And you assume I am so new to the title and such a disgrace to the nobility that I would accept another man’s babe as my heir?” His voice had cooled noticeably, and Alicia flinched. Lady Morehouse held up bravely in the face of the clear disdain in his eyes, but if she’d thought Captain Jack Boone hadn’t an inch of noble duty in him, she’d been dead wrong. “I am afraid I cannot, madam.” He rose.

  “I’ll do it,” Kate blurted. What? If she could have stared blankly at her own mouth, she would have. The words fell into the chill silence of the room and bloomed, echoing strangely. All eyes turned toward her, and she could feel herself blushing. What was she doing? “I mean, er, marry you.” He stared at her, and she found herself stammering on. “If, uh, you want a wife, I mean. I-I’m a virgin. I’m not—” She gestured vaguely at her midsection. If her face got any hotter, she would burst into flame, and this entire humiliating moment would be over.

  Somehow, he was standing in front of her. She hadn’t even noticed him moving, quick and catlike, across the floor. She felt a finger on her chin, pressure bringing her burning face upward so she could meet his curious gaze. “Why?” he asked quietly.

  She glanced at Alicia, who scowled back and mouthed, “Don’t.” Then over to Lady Morehouse, who was rolling her eyes as though she’d given up on the entire situation.

  Thoughts clicked through Kate’s mind, quickly lining themselves up in order. “Could we speak privately, my lord?”

  His eyebrows rose and his hand dropped away from her face. “I don’t know. Can we?” He sounded mildly curious, as though he wondered whether an egg would break if he dropped it.

  “Alicia. Aunt. May I speak to Lord Rothwell? Alone?”

  Lady Morehouse sniffed. “We’re all completely lost to propriety as it is,” she said. “You might as well. Come, girl.” She put a hand on Alicia’s arm.

  “Don’t touch me,” Alicia snapped.

  “Don’t speak to me in that fashion,” Lady Morehouse returned.

  “Alicia.” Kate could feel the air thickening again. “Please. Just five minutes.”

  “Fine. As if it will help anything.” Alicia left the room, and Kate felt like she could breathe again.

  Lady Morehouse followed her out, leaving the door pointedly ajar.

  “Please, sit down,” Kate said, trying to remember her manners as she folded herself into a chair.

  Lord Rothwell was staring at the door with an odd expression on his face. “So that’s why,” he murmured.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  Instead of sitting down, he moved over to the fireplace, where the servants had spent hours scrubbing away any sign of damage. He ran a finger over the hearth, then rubbed it against his thumb. “Fascinating.”

  Kate felt herself becoming cold. “What do you mean?” Lady Morehouse was just trying to solve Alicia’s problem with a convenient marriage. Wasn’t she?

  “Had any sudden explosions here recently?” he asked mildly as he turned toward her.

  “How did you—”

  “The reason Lady Morehouse contacted Her Grace specifically is becoming abundantly clear,” he said. “Has your sister recently thrown any other temper tantrums like the one you just interrupted?”

  “Well—”

  “You needn’t prevaricate,” he said cheerfully. “Magic’s quite delightful, you know.” He held out a hand, and she watched in astonishment as a shimmering bubble grew in his palm. “Mine’s all weather and water,” he said, squeezing the bubble gently. “But I grew up with a battle-mage, and that’s what your sister seems to have the gift for.”

  “Battle-mage?”

  “A fancy word for somebody who could flatten London in a temper,” he said. “Thirsty?”

  “Er, no, thank you.”

  “All right.” He tossed the bubble toward the fireplace and it splashed against the back of the grate as though he’d simply emptied a cup of water over the hearth. “Then tell me why you’re so desperate to get married.”

  “I’m not—” She stopped. Wasn’t she? She sighed. “Desperate is a depressing word. Can we go with willing?”

  “Good lord, willing ought to be the bare minimum,” he said. “God save me from an unwilling bride.”

  “I might have been one, a few weeks ago,” she confessed. Although, as she looked at him, a quiet voice inside her wondered if that were precisely true. He was tall, tall enough to meet her eye to eye, with lean muscles lending him a veneer of stability as though he would be hard to knock over. Brown hair cut unfashionably short hung over his forehead, just above hazel eyes with humor dancing in them alongside flecks of gold. His skin was tanned but smooth. His infectious smile made her want to smile too, even though she had precious little to smile about just now.

  “Unwilling to marry me, or unwilling to marry?” he asked.

  “I had planned to seek employment,” she said.

  He blinked. “That’s . . . unusual.”

  Her lips thinned. “The current crop of candidates for marriage seemed both unappealing and uninterested in someone of my age, and I only have one Season to settle my future, so finding a position that produced income seemed my best option.”

  He held up a hand. “Wait. I need to break this down.”

  “Break what down?”

  “First of all, how old are you, exactly?”

  “Twenty-three.”

  “And unmarried, obviously.”

  “It’s my first Season.”

  He frowned. “I assumed it was your sister’s fir
st.”

  “It’s both.”

  “How is that possible? I’m told you’re the daughter of an earl.” His dismissive tone made it her turn to blink. For a viscount, he didn’t seem to have much interest in earls.

  “There were . . . several ill-timed deaths.” A polite way to describe her life being ripped out from under her, one person and one year at a time.

  “I see. So mourning prevented you until now?”

  “For the most part, yes.”

  “All right. That explains some of it, but not the urgency.”

  Her lips pressed together grimly. How she hated having to talk about this part. “My father had no sons, and was an only son himself. The earldom has passed to a more distant cousin.” Serious, sober Anthony, who’d told her he was doing his best and then explained in patronizing detail what she’d already known.

  “And?”

  “And the estate’s finances, while recovering slowly, are in somewhat dire straits, as they have been for some time. There was enough money for one Season for the both of us. If we couldn’t find husbands or income by the end of the Season, it was strongly suggested that we find charity, as it would not be forthcoming from the estate.”

  “I . . . see,” he said slowly. “While the idea of family treating each other in such a way is foreign to me, I will confess I’m not a stranger to seeing it happen to others.”

  “Family is important to you?”

  “Family is everything,” he said.

  “Then you understand why my circumstances have abruptly changed.”

  “You feel a need to provide for your sister.”

  “I didn’t know that Lady Moreland expected you to marry her,” Kate said. It was the truth, although she didn’t know if he believed her. “I thought she was asking for help with the magic.”