Prologue
Woodhenge (near Goring), Summer 1808
Michael Brightman, heir to the pile of crumbling stone in which he currently found himself, hurried through the narrow corridors, eager to reach the rooms he kept in this, his uncle’s home. He thought about his odds of finding a willing wench among the kitchen or laundry staff at that moment, but decided against it. And the village was certainly too far to travel in the middle of his older sister Sabrina’s wedding feast, take care of business, and return. Damn his balls, but the past two hours of staring at Miss Stansbury’s delectable décolletage—and envisioning his face planted between those luscious breasts—caused an uncomfortable tightness is his breeches that would need relief soon, whether by his own hand, or a willing woman.
He’d prefe
