An American heiress married for her dowry
When Victoria fell in love with the Earl of Pembroke, she never imagined he’d heartlessly wed, bed, and abandon her in the countryside. After he suddenly returns, determined to prove to her he’s a changed man, she’s not about to forgive him, trust him, or succumb to his scorching kisses.
A future duke trapped by obligation
Will has devoted his life to enraging his loathsome father by creating one scandal after the next. Duty forces him back to the wife he resents, but he isn’t prepared for the raw desire she makes him feel. Seducing her will hardly be a tedious task. Guarding his heart, however, is another matter entirely.
A marriage of convenience no more
What begins in deception and necessity turns into an attraction neither can deny. Can their newfound passion keep them together forever, or will the truth tear them apart?
Victoria hovered at the threshold of the music room, watching Pembroke’s broad back as he played. Faint strains of piano music had drifted to her in the library. Lively and lilting, the tune had drawn her from her hiding place among the musty walls of books. She’d known, of course, that it was him playing. Surely no servant would dare to make a presumption so glaring, and surely no servant could play with such practiced skill. But still she’d come, her curiosity luring her.
The thought of him playing an instrument, creating the haunting beauty of a melody, those long fingers of his working over the keys, had somehow seemed impossible. Improbable. For no man could play the piano as he did—with effortless beauty and striking passion—without possessing a soul. And up until this very moment, she would’ve sworn he didn’t have one.
She caught her skirts in her hand. Truly, she should go before he caught sight of her. Spending time alone with Pembroke, she’d fast discovered, was perilous to her newfound sense of liberty. She’d realized something about herself since his return. For all that she’d felt trapped in the country, she’d delighted in her task of making Carrington House shine again. Even the piano he played, the room in which he set loose such passionate notes, had been in sad neglect. She’d had the piano tuned and ebonized, the room dusted and rearranged, the stained wallpaper, worn carpets, and outmoded furniture replaced. Her father had sent her a handsome allotment, and she’d put those funds to good use.
Yes, she really ought to go. The song, a familiar tune by Pleyel, was nearing its completion. At any moment, he could turn, catch sight of her, attempt to importune her again with sinful kisses and a wandering touch. Of course she didn’t want that. She turned.
The music stopped, the air going still.
“Wait.”
Ignore him. Just go. Keep walking. She took another step, self-preservation at the reins.
“Victoria, don’t go.”
She pivoted before she could rethink the wisdom of obeying him. His words had been part demand, part request. He didn’t deserve her presence. She didn’t owe him her time. But their gazes clashed and held, and even with the distance between them, something made her retrace her steps, at least back to the threshold where she’d lingered before.
“What do you want, my lord?” She would be cool to him. Civil but not kind. Above all, she didn’t owe him kindness.
He stood, and she realized for the first time how informally he was dressed. Trousers and a crisp white shirt beneath a charcoal waistcoat. No jacket. He looked at home, and the thought produced an unwanted frisson of emotion unfurling within her.
“Do you intend to hover in the hall, or will you join me?”