The return of the rogue
The Earl of Pembroke’s London Mansion
London, 1768
"He is a ghost, Louisa—a myth told to frighten debutantes and excite widows."
Lady Catherine stood before her floor-length mirror, her eyes tracking the way the candlelight caught the shimmering silk of her gown. She was twenty-one, possessing a sharp wit that often outpaced the dull gentlemen of the ton. She knew her worth, and she knew her goals: a marriage of substance, a home of her own, and a man who could match her spirit.
"The Duke of Edinburgh is no myth," Louisa countered, pins held between her teeth as she adjusted the delicate lace at Catherine’s sleeve. "My brother says the Duke and the Earl were inseparable at Oxford. They were the terror of the university. But while your brother came home to take up his duties, the Duke chose... other pursuits."
"Travel and debauchery," Catherine summarized with a small, knowing smile. "Julian speaks of him with such fondness, yet never lets me see the letters they exchange. He treats me like a porcelain doll to be kept from the dust. Little does he know, I find the dust much more interesting than the shelf."
She turned, her skirts swirling in a graceful arc. "Tonight is Julian's birth-night. He expects me to be a gracious hostess. I, however, intend to see if this 'Rogue Duke' is truly as dangerous as the rumors suggest."
White’s Gentleman’s Club, St. James’s
The air in the private lounge was thick with tobacco smoke and the heavy scent of expensive brandy. Edmund, the Duke of Edinburgh, leaned back in a leather armchair, one leg crossed carelessly over the other. He was a man of sharp angles and restless energy, his dark eyes reflecting a persistent, world-weary boredom.
"So, the prodigal Duke returns," one of his companions toasted, raising a crystal snifter. "Tell us, Edmund is it true the women in Paris are as revolutionary as the politics?"
Edmund gave a low, rakish chuckle. "The politics are messy, but the women... they understand that a moment of pleasure is worth more than a lifetime of boring vows. I’ve spent three years avoiding the altar of boredom; I do not intend to start kneeling now."
He stood up, shaking out his lace cuffs. His presence seemed to pull the oxygen from the room. He was rich, titled, and utterly uninterested in the rules of the society he had just rejoined.
"Come," Edmund said, his voice a smooth, dangerous baritone. "Julian is waiting. He has been my best friend since our first day at university, and he is the only man in London who does not look at me like a bank account or a scandal waiting to happen. Let us go to this ball, drink his finest scotch, and see if London has anything new to offer."
The atmosphere in the ballroom was electric. As Edmund stepped through the gilded doors, a wave of silence followed by frantic whispering rippled through the crowd.
"The Duke of Edinburgh," mothers hissed to their daughters, snapping fans shut as if to shield them from a heatwave. "A rogue of the worst sort. Do not look him in the eye."
Yet, the young debutantes could not help but peek, and the seasoned widows leaned forward, their eyes tracing the broad line of his shoulders. Edmund ignored them all. He moved through the sea of silk and perfume with the predatory grace of a man who found the world incredibly dull until he saw her.
At the top of the grand marble staircase, Lady Catherine appeared. She was a vision of fire and composure, her eyes surveying the room with an intelligence that far surpassed the simple fawning of the crowd.
For the first time in years, Edmund’s heart gave a strange, heavy thud. Without a word to his companions, he moved. He carved a path through the crowd until he reached the base of the stairs. As she reached the final step, he reached out, his large hand steady and inviting.
"The music is far too beautiful to be wasted on the sidelines," he said, his voice a low, honeyed growl. "Will you grant me this dance, mistress?"
Catherine looked at the hand, then up at the man. He was dangerously handsome, with a smirk that suggested he knew exactly what she looked like without her corset. She did not know his name, but she recognized the challenge.
"You are very bold, sir," she replied, placing her hand in his. Her skin tingled at the contact. "Do you always demand what you want without an introduction?"
"Only when the prize is worth the potential rejection," he countered, leading her onto the floor.
As the violins began a spirited waltz, they moved in perfect synchronicity. The banter was sharp, the attraction immediate. She found him arrogant, certainly, but there was a magnetic pull in his dark eyes that she could not ignore.
When the music faded, the air between them was thick with a tension neither could name. Edmund led her toward the edge of the ballroom, his mind already racing with ways to spirit this mysterious woman away to a dark corner.
"Edmund! You scoundrel! You actually made it!"
A boisterous voice broke the spell. Julian, the Earl of Pembroke, strode toward them, his face beaming with genuine joy. He clapped a hand on Edmund’s shoulder, shaking it with the warmth of a brother.
"Julian," Edmund said, forced to tear his gaze away from the woman. "You look remarkably respectable for a man who once tried to out-drink the entire faculty at Oxford."
Julian laughed, then turned to Catherine with a protective, doting smile. "I see you’ve already met the guest of honor. Edmund, let me introduce you to my pride and joy. This is my sister, Catherine."
The color drained from Catherine’s face.
"Sister?" Edmund repeated, the word tasting like lead. He looked at Julian his best friend, the man who had shared his secrets for a decade and then back at the woman he had just been imagining in his bed.
"Catherine," Julian continued, oblivious to the sudden frost in the air, "this is Edmund, the Duke of Edinburgh. My oldest friend. The man I told you to stay far away from if you value your reputation."
Catherine felt the floor tilt. The rogue. The rake. Her brother’s best friend.
"Your Grace," she managed, her voice tight as she dropped a stiff, formal curtsy.
Edmund bowed, his dark eyes now burning with a mixture of frustration and a new, even more dangerous hunger. "Lady Catherine," he murmured, his voice dropping an octave. "It seems your brother’s warnings were... entirely justified."
