Chapter 1.1

   The rattle of the the curtain rings sounded like thunder. The head of the huge four-poster bed remained wreathed in shadow yet Felix was aware that for some mysterious reason Harveston was trying to wake him. Surely it couldn't be noon already?

   Lying prone amid his warm sheets, his stubbled cheek cushioned in softest down, Felix contemplated faking slumber. But Haverston knew he was awake. And knew that he knew, so to speak. Sometimes, the damned man seemed to know his thoughts before he did. And he certainly wouldn't go away before Felix capitulated and acknowledged him.

   Raising his head, Felix opened one very blue eye. His terrifying correct valet was standing, entirely immobile, plumb in his line of vision. Haverston's face was impassive. Felix frowned.

   In response to this sign of approaching wrath, Haverston made haste to state his business. Not that it was his business, exactly. Only the combined vote of the rest of the senior staff of Delmere House had induced him to disturb His Grace's rest at the unheard-of hour of nine o'clock. He has every reason to know just how dangerous such an undertaking could be. He had been in the service of Felix Cambridge, Viscount Delmere, for nine years. It was highly unlikely his master's recent elevation to the estate of His Grace the Duke of Twyford had in any way altered his temper. In fact, from what Haverston had seen, his master had had more to try his temper in dealing with his unexpected inheritance than in all the rest of his thirty-four years.

   "Rickshaw wished me to inform you that there's a young lady to see you, Your Grace."

   It was still a surprise to Felix to hear his new title on his servants' lips. He had to curb an automatic reaction to look at him for whomever they were addressing. A lady. His frown deepened. "No." He dropped his head back into the soft pillows and closed his eyes.

   "No, Your Grace?"

   The bewilderment in his valet's voice was unmistakable. Felix's head ached. He had been up until dawn. The evening had started badly, when he had felt constrained to attended a ball given by his maternal aunt, Lady Cornwall. He rarely attended such functions. They were too tame for his liking; the languishing sighs his appearance provoked among all the sweet young things were enough to throw even the most hardened reprobate entirely off his stride. And while he had every claim to that title, seducing débutantes was no linger his style. Not at thirty-four.

   He had left the ball as soon as he could and repaired to the discreet villa wherein resided his latest mistress. But the beautiful Lolita had been in a petulant mood. Why were such women invariably so grasping? And why did they imagine he was so besotted that he'd stand for it? They had had an almighty row, which had ended with him giving the luscious lady-bird her congé in no uncertain terms.

   From there, he had gone to Greene's, then Muggles. At that discreet establishment, he had found a group of his cronies and together they had managed to while the night away. And most of the morning, too. He had neither won nor lost. But his head reminded him that he had certainly drank a lot.

   He groaned and raised himself on his elbows, to better fix Harveston with a gaze which, despite his condition, was remarkably lucid. Speaking in the voice of one instructing a dimwit, he explained. "If there's a woman to see me, she can't be a lady. No lady would call here."

   Felix thought he was stating the obvious but his henchman stared woodenly at the bedpost. The frown, which had temporarily left his master's handsome face, returned.

   Silence.

   Felix sighed and dropped his head on to his hands. "Have you seen her, Harveston?"

   "I did managed to get a glimpse of the young lady when Rickshaw showed her into the library, Your Grace."

   Felix screwed his eyes tightly shut. Haverston's insistence on using the term "young lady" spoke volumes. All of Felix's servants were experienced in telling the difference between ladies and the sort of female who might be expected to call at a bachelor's residence. And if both Haverston and Rickshaw insisted the woman downstairs was a young lady, then a young lady she must be. But it was inconceivable that any young lady would pay a nine o'clock call on the most notorious rake in London.

   Taking his master's silence as a sign of commitment to the day, Harveston crosses the large chamber of wardrobe. "Rickshaw mentioned that the young lady, Miss Fleming, Your Grace, was under the impression she had an appointment with you."

   Felix had the sudden conviction that this was a nightmare. He rarely made appointments with anyone and certainly not with young ladies for nine o'clock in the morning. And particularly now with unmarried young ladies. "Miss Fleming?" The name rang no bells. Not even a rattle.

   "Yes, Your Grace." Harveston returned to the bed, various garments draped on his arm, a deep blue coat lovingly displayed for approval. "The Bath superfine would, I think, be almost appropriate?"

   Yielding to the inevitable with a groan, Felix sat up.