The Debutantes Duke - Ava Bond

THE DEBUTANTE’S DUKE
An Oxford Set Prequel
AVA BOND
First published 2022.
Copyright © 2022 by Ava Bond
Cover Art by: Forever After Romance Designs
The moral rights of the authors have been asserted.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or

transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical,
photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission
from the publisher.
It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any

other means without permission.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction and all characters and events are
fictional. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or
localities is entirely coincidental.
This novel contains scenes of a sexual nature.

CHAPTER 1
L
ondon, April 1808
Lady Annabelle Bradley had always dreamt of
coming to London for a season of her own. Her
girlish imagination sparkled with the tonish balls and
debonair gentlemen, and she dreamt that amongst the sophis
ticated beau monde, she would fall in love. But most girls like
her learnt that these hopes would stay as nothing more than
that, especially since Annabelle’s family came from trade; it
wasn’t possible for someone of her birth.
However, all of that had changed a month ago, when
Annabelle’s father had returned and informed his family that
he had been awarded a grand title and that they could now
look beyond their station. Since her father’s lofty elevation,
Annabelle could now refer to herself as a Lady, and look
forward to a hastily bought season amongst the ton. Or at
least the ton that would accept the Bradleys. After all, they
were nouveau riche, and unlikely to be accepted by the crème
de la crème of polite society. So far, tickets for Almack's had
remained elusive for all Mamma’s e orts. Still, the family had
somehow been invited to the Earl of Hurstbourne’s come out
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ball for his only daughter, Lady Viola Lynde, and it was going
to be one of the most sensational events of the season.
“And it couldn’t have come at a better time for you,” Lady
Bradley said.
Annabelle stood on a stool, being measured by the most
stylish dressmaker the Bradleys could secure. They had trav
elled to the centre of Belgravia to see Madame Céline Thiers,
and Annabelle had the sneaking suspicion that the modiste
was all too aware of how shaky the Bradleys’ claim to nobility
was.
“To think, a daughter of mine mingling amongst the ton.”
Lady Bradley knew her daughter’s romantic notions all too
well but endeavoured to convince her eldest child to be prac
tical. It was a lesson Annabelle was loath to learn. “With a
face such as this,” her mother said to the modiste, “would she
not be worthy of being drawn as Helen of Troy?”
Madame Thiers nodded along, obviously used to soothing
nervous young debutants and their mothers. “I think,” she
said, her French accent thick as she smoothed out the end of
Annabelle’s skirt, “you will see the Oxford Set at the ball
tonight.”
The name lingered in the air, and both Lady Bradley and
Annabelle gazed at the dressmaker. Annabelle’s stomach
flipped with anticipation. Madame Thiers grinned and fanned
her own face. “Ahh, madams, you must know the Oxford
Set?”
“We do,” Annabelle replied quickly. It was true, she had
read everything she could lay her hands on about the glam
orous, famous no, infamous men. All seven of them. The
thought of meeting them made her shiver in her demur
cream gown, her skin abuzz, grateful for the long gloves that
hid most of her arms. Every young lady, and even some
gentlemen, had seen stories in the gossip rags about the
dashing young men who made up the Set. There were tales of
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wild horse races down to Brighton. Bets placed on boat rides

at Bath. A scandalous Italian opera singer who was one of
their lovers and, it was said, also the illegitimate daughter of a
prince, although Mamma had removed the gossip rag before
Annabelle had read the rest of that particular story.
“Since Lady Viola is the sister of Lord Lynde, all of his
friends will be certain to be there,” Madame Thiers said. “I
should know; Lady Lynde is my patron.”
“Surely, the young lady would look to secure one of the
Set for herself?” Lady Bradley asked.
“Oui.” The modiste moved around Annabelle, taking in
her creation with a practised eye.
Annabelle leant her head back and thought about what
she knew of the men. The Oxford Set had been coined in the
papers because that was where each of the men had studied,
and by the fact that they seemed to truly be friends, united
and unbreakable. It seemed the more these young men did,
the more the press adored them, writing reams on their
antics. They were nearly all noblemen, well connected,
monied, and most importantly of all, devastatingly good look
ing, which explained the fascination.
The Duke of Woolwich was said to be cold and distant,
but he could be anyway he liked with such a grand title. The
Marquess of Heatherbroke was said to be cheekier than Loki
and twice as amusing. Then there was the mysterious
Viscount Silverton. Lord Lynde, an amusing son of a prom
inent earl. The half French Baronet Verne. Heatherbroke’s
younger brother, Lord Cavendish. And finally, there was the
wealthy Mr. Trawler, heavily rumoured to be the baseborn
son of the Duke of Grisham. Their names had filled the
gossip rags, and Annabelle had constructed a lot of her
romantic daydreams around meeting or dancing with one of
these men.
“You look very well, mademoiselle.” Madame Thiers gave
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Lady Bradley a conspiratorial grin. “Well, enough to tempt a

great many gentlemen.”
“To lose their hearts?” Annabelle asked, dimpling at the
idea.
“To propose,” Lady Bradley corrected, getting to her feet
now that her daughter was done.
“Why not both?” whispered the modiste as she helped
Annabelle down from the stool.
Lady Bradley was still talking about the Set after they left
the modiste’s and climbed into the carriage, where
Annabelle’s father was waiting for them.
“The Set rules the roost in London,” Lady Bradley told
her husband. “They will be there tonight. Each of them is
said to be even more charming than the next. One is even
said to be a spy.”
“What stu and nonsense,” her husband replied,
accepting the hat box from Annabelle and giving her a
fatherly smile. “As if anyone in the ton actually works.” His
views on the nobility were not the most sympathetic, despite
his aspirations of belonging to their world.
“It isn’t stu or nonsense,” Lady Bradley replied with
vehemence. “And any one of those young men would make a
fabulous match for Annie. Or any of our daughters. Well, not
the baseborn one, I confess, although they do say his father is
the Duke of Grisham. But any of the others would be a fine
pairing for her. I dare not look as high as the duke or
marquess, but one can dream.”
Annabelle looked out of the window, hoping there would
be a way both to have love and to satisfy her mother’s wishes
for a title. After all, what was wrong with a dream coming
true?
4
T HE GLAMOUROUS B ELGRAVIA TOWNHOUSE , WHERE L ADY

Viola’s ball was being held, was a grand palatial building that
formed an elegant crescent of cream coloured stone.
Annabelle’s eyes grew as round as saucers as she climbed from
the carriage and looked around. A steady stream of coaches
was ahead of their carriage, each pausing to allow opulently
outfitted inhabitants to climb out. The pathway up to the
mansion was lit by torchlights that sent out tiny, illuminated
circles of golden light. From somewhere close by came the
scent of jasmine, which seemed to imply that this was unlike
any place that Annabelle had ever been in before. It was more
beautiful, elegant, and refined than her domestic life in
Putney or anything that existence could o er. If someone had
told Annabelle that she had to return to her old life, she was
sure she would want to murder that person. She realised her
mouth was slightly agape.
On entering the packed ballroom, Annabelle found
herself ushered away from her parents and towards the
powder room. Her mother waved her onwards, encouraging
her to go and mingle with the other girls.
She walked on awkwardly, but the other debutantes, who
all seemed to know each other, chatted away together, occa
sionally shooting Annabelle questioning stares, their arched
brows and pinched lips unwelcoming. They squashed
together into the powder room.
“I don’t think they like you much,” came a chirpy voice
from behind her.
Turning, Annabelle looked down to see a curvaceous girl,
a good seven inches shorter than her, trying her best to adjust
the Cerise ribbon nestled amongst her bright gold curls. The
girl had big round cheeks and friendly, dark blue eyes that
looked almost violet in the light. They glinted mischievously
up at Annabelle. The other young lady was dressed in a milk
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white debutante gown, but the paleness was not flattering; a

more vibrant colour would have brightened her complexion.
“No, it seems that they do not,” Annabelle said, drawing
herself up to her full height.
The girl let out a disappointed sigh at her appearance in a
nearby mirror and moved away, unable to get the required
angle on the o ending ribbon. She rocked backwards and
forwards on the balls of her feet as she stared at Annabelle.
“Probably because you’re so pretty,” the shorter girl said.
She moved closer to Annabelle, gazing up at her with open
curiosity, before suddenly clapping her hands in excitement.
“Come with me.” She grabbed Annabelle’s hand and started
pulling her through the corridors of the mansion. “You are
quite the person I was looking for.”
“I am?” Annabelle’s fear of being exposed, of someone
knowing that she and her family did not belong here, over
whelmed her. “But you don’t even know who I am.”
The girl laughed. “That is why I will win.”
They rushed down the hallways. Annabelle tried not to be
overwhelmed by her opulent surroundings; Corinthian pillars
of marble, magnificent paintings that hung from every wall,
and echoing all around them was the tempting sound of
music. However, her initial fear of being exposed had not
diminished; she realised how much she feared her social
vulnerability and being ridiculed for it.
They rounded the corner. In front of them was the
entrance to a billiards room, from which came the sound of
male laughter. The smaller girl stopped in her tracks, and
Annabelle came to a halt close behind her. A handsome man
of perhaps six feet stood in the corridor. An easy curl of dark
brown hair hung haphazardly over his forehead. There was
something endearing about how boyish he looked. He was
dressed in a fine black suit, his white shirt crisp despite a
dented cravat that spoke of something rather naughty.
6
Turning at the sound of the girls’ arrival, the man quirked an

eyebrow at them.
“Why, Vi,” the young man said, moving forward, “what
fresh mischief are you up to?”
A thought struck Annabelle what if she had been
dragged along to a lover’s tryst? The most important thing
for a debutante was her reputation; she could not forget that,
and colluding with these young people would not help hers.
As Annabelle tried to prise her fingers out of the other
woman’s grip, her satin slippers caught slightly on the carpet
as she tried to move away, and she lost her balance entirely.
Letting out an unladylike gasp, she fell backwards towards the
floor.
But she didn’t hit the ground. Instead, a broad pair of
hands caught hold of her, one at the midpoint of her back
and the other lower, somewhere between her waist and
her bottom. Hastily, the man helped steady the furiously
blushing Annabelle, who glanced up into the face of her
rescuer. Now that she was closer, she saw the approach
able dimple in the corner of one of his cheeks. He was
young, only a couple of years Annabelle’s senior, and he
had deep green eyes that flashed merrily as he took in the
situation. Those eyes seemed to encompass both woodland
greens and snug ferns, and yet despite those natural
images, there was something alluringly domestic about
him. The heat of his hand seemed to burn through the
thin material of Annabelle’s dress all the way down to her
toes.
“I know all about the bet. I heard George talking about it,
and this is her, the belle of the season. I want my winnings for
finding her.” The young woman looked more childish than
ever.
The gentleman set Annabelle on her feet, releasing her
slowly and bowing to her with a gentleman like air. He was
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frowning, but his annoyance was aimed at the short girl.

“Eavesdropping again?”
“It is the only way I hear anything interesting.”
“Do you mean you have dragged this young woman along
with you for such a purpose?”
Annabelle’s mind was turning very slowly. There was a bet
about a lady, it seemed. A mixture of embarrassment and
understanding collided she was the subject of a man’s
betting book. How dare they? Some people might be flat
tered, but Annabelle was ever conscious of her family’s
precarious position in society, and she did not want anything
dubious like that being raised about her. She was grateful for
the protective stance that this young man was taking towards
her.
“Why don’t you introduce us, Vi?” he said.
“I can’t.” Her abductor finally looked embarrassed. “We
haven’t been introduced.”
“So, your plan was to interrupt your own debutante ball
and drag this poor woman ”
“Please excuse me,” Annabelle said. She desperately
wanted to leave. Her mind had put together that the lady was
Viola Lynde, and she had a suspicion that the men she
wanted Annabelle to meet were the Oxford Set. This was not
how she wanted to meet them. She had pictured one of them
spotting her from across the ballroom and demanding to
know who she was. Not this rigmarole of being dragged here
and there.
“This is Lord Cavendish,” Viola said, gesturing to his lord
ship. Realisation crashed over Annabelle. The young
gentleman she had been so moved by, who had tried his best
to be protective of Annabelle and scolded Lady Viola for her
bad manners, whose eyes made her imagine him writing
poetry to her, or whispering teasing jokes to her as they
watched the theatre.
8
Before Annabelle or even His Lordship could reply, Viola

continued, “Don’t you think I will win the bet?”
Lord Cavendish ignored Viola’s question and drew nearer
to Annabelle, “I take it that Lady Lynde has thoroughly
complained of all of our Set to you.”
“No, Your Lordship, the fact that you are betting on
young ladies would be enough to do that. I had previously
heard about your reputation, and it is disappointing to see it
so played out.”
“Shocking,” Lord Cavendish said. There was such a light
ness in his features that it was all Annabelle could do not to
smile back. How could he make her forget that she was cross?
“But I am hardly a member. Really, I am only included
because of my brother. Most of the Set are friends with
Heatherbroke, you see.”
“The marquess?” Annabelle said before she could help
herself.
He nodded. “Ahh, we are known.”
Wetting her lips, Annabelle realised that Lady Viola had
disappeared into the billiards room; she could hear cries of
outrage at the intrusion into a masculine space. They had
been left on their own.
It was shocking, and the only explanation was that Lady
Viola regarded Lord Cavendish as part of the furniture, so she
felt no danger from him. The same could not be said for
Annabelle, whose pulse began to race.
“Can I beg the honour of knowing your name before we
are descended upon?” He moved closer. He possessed himself
of her hand, and despite their gloves, Annabelle could feel the
heat of him lingering close to her.
“Annabelle,” she said, forgetting her title and her surname
as she gazed at him. A tension lingered between them, so
close that it was tangible.
“It suits you.”
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“You think so, my lord?” She tried to back away. She

needed to be sensible and not let her emotions get the better
of her, but it was hard with him smiling at her so winningly.
“Indeed. Does Belle mean beauty? Although I cannot
remember what Anna means…” He frowned in mock
constatation. There was such a boyish charm to the way he
pretended to consider it that Annabelle laughed.
“I shouldn’t be surprised if it really meant delight. With a
laugh such as that, who could not be won over?”
“Are you easily won over?” Annabelle asked despite
herself, feeling bolder than she had ever thought possible.
Before he could reply, they were interrupted. The door
opened behind them, and when Annabelle looked around,
there was a group of young men filing out of the billiards
room. Lord Cavendish released Annabelle’s hand, and she
immediately missed his presence. Her eyes moved over each
man in turn. The papers had not remotely done the Oxford
Set justice. They were all handsomely dressed, with nobility
etched into their features, and nearly every one of them was
looking at Annabelle. Two of them were blond, although
neither of these men was similar in looks aside from this.
Three, including Lord Cavendish, had dark brown hair. The
remaining two gentlemen had auburn hair.
One of the blond men was striding forward. He looked
like he had to be Lady Viola’s brother; indeed, he was drag
ging her along next to him. She was pink cheeked and talking
to him with great animation. Pulling herself free, Lady Viola
moved across to Annabelle’s side. Her face was defiant as she
turned to stare at the men, although Annabelle thought it a
little too late for her outrage. “It is bad manners to bet on
women. Let that be a lesson to you all.”
“It’s my fault.” The gentleman who spoke looked similar
to Lord Cavendish but was slightly shorter, and he had a
touch more auburn in his hair. This had to be Marquess of
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Heatherbroke. He was not as impressive to Annabelle’s eyes

and certainly not as magnetic as his younger brother. He
bowed to the ladies, his expression amused. “Please accept
my apologies and allow us to beg an introduction.”
“She knows who we are,” Lord Cavendish said. “Lady
Viola has thoroughly abused us.”
“We can’t have that,” Heatherbroke said. “Allow me to
formally introduce the Set to you, my lady. I see you have
already met my younger brother, Lord Richard Cavendish.”
He moved his hand onwards to the other men. Each
gentleman made a bow to her in turn. It was more than she
had dreamt of, but fear echoed inside her again; what would
happen if they discovered she was not worthy of their
attention?
The handsome blond man who was similar in appearance
to Viola did indeed turn out to be her brother, Lord Lynde.
He gave Annabelle a cheery smile and o ered another
apology for his sister’s actions. The two remaining dark
haired gentlemen greeted her next. One, who had been
watching the proceedings with a distracted air, was revealed
to be Baronet Verne, and the man with almost black eyes was
Viscount Silverton. Both were polite as they bowed over her
hand.
“This is Trawler.” Heatherbroke indicated another man:
this gentleman had closely cut auburn hair and a scru y
appearance as if he’d recently been in a brawl. Before he could
speak or even make his own bow, a severe voice came from
the back of the throng. Pushing himself forward was the
tallest of the Set, a giant blond man who seemed to be made
of pure muscle. He moved to Annabelle’s side.
“I’m Woolwich.” His voice was gru as if he disliked using
words overmuch. “Please allow me to escort you out on the
dancefloor.”
“But you don’t even know my name.” Annabelle was
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certain she should have felt flattered by all this attention, but
what she really wanted them all to do was to depart so she
and Lord Cavendish could return to their whispered amusing
conversation, and she could sink into the depths of his eyes
without any witnesses.
“How mysterious.” The teasing marquess made a gesture
of pondering who she could be. “Shall we come up with a
name?”
“I’m Lady Annabelle Bradley,” she interrupted, and waited
for them to realise that she was nobody, a social pariah far
beneath their notice and for them to leave her.
Instead, Woolwich stretched his hand out towards her.
The huge man titled his head in respectful acknowledgment
of who she was. She knew who he was. Jasper Mavor, seventh
Duke of Woolwich. A man so far above her it was absurd. It
rather awed her to see him so. Tentatively, she took his prof
fered hand and allowed him to lead her out towards the ball.
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CHAPTER 2
J
asper Mavor, the Duke of Woolwich, was nursing a
blinding headache, brought on by the fiercest of drink
ing, one which looked as if it would continue long into
the evening. Part of him was grateful for the relief that
alcohol brought. It dulled the ache of his father's death just
six months ago, it muted his mother’s demands, and it
conveyed the impression to his friends that he was settled
and perfectly at ease with his new dukedom. To say that he
had found the experience to be an overwhelming one was an
understatement, and that one of the reasons he took such
comfort in the company of his friends. And alcohol. It was
consoling indeed to know that too many of them were in a
similar situation as him young, suddenly powerful, and, for
nearly all of them, fatherless. Yet despite this similarity
amongst the Set, Jasper never quite grasped the courage to
discuss his feelings directly with any of his friends.
The social whirl of the last six months had been daunting.
He could just about manage the ins and outs of Parliamentary
rules, get through the meetings with various estate secre
taries, and learn farming rotations. What he struggled with
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was the chatter of his mother and her desire, as the dowa
ger, to find a suitable woman to fill her own shoes. Jasper had
gone along tonight with half an eye to proposing to Lynde’s
baby sister. Then the situation would be over and done with.
If only Lady Viola didn’t look as if she still belonged in the
schoolroom.
He followed in the wake of his friends, swept along by
their talk and whatever Viola had been fussing about. There
had been a tirade of words, some of which he’d listened to
and others less so, before they were all crowded together in a
narrow hallway for a purpose he could not understand.
Not until he saw her. At the sight of the glimmering
beauty in the hallway, Jasper forgot his headache. He forgot
practicality everything else.
She was stunning, regal almost, as she looked around the
Set. Her fine, delicate blonde hair was so prettily arranged
atop her head, with scattered pink flowers at di erent inter
vals. She had a neat patrician nose that looked as if it had
never been out in the sun; her skin was as pale as snow. Her
fine blue eyes regarded the Set with precision as if she could
not quite make up her mind about them. Her figure Jasper
felt his mouth go dry. But she was not merely beautiful. No,
there was more. Strength radiated out of her. She would not
be intimidated, and he admired her for it. A lesser woman
might be daunted, but this lady would not be.
Suddenly, Viola’s earlier comments about winning bets
made a touch more sense. Somehow the chit had overheard
George’s wager of finding the belle of the season. Jasper
hadn’t paid it much mind when the money had been laid
down. It was something they always did, silly bets that meant
nothing, and with stakes that seldom went beyond a dozen
pounds or so. Suddenly, Jasper felt furious with his dearest
friend. How dare George be so silly? There was a faint trace
of colour in the lady’s cheeks at the mention of the bet. It
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was sordid. It was unseemly. The urge to pull her away from
such childish antics swept through Jasper, and he found
himself lurching forward. She was better than this, and he
was worried she might see through them and their boyish
foolishness and have nothing to do with them.
“I’m Woolwich,” he said, cutting past Lord Richard and
Michael Trawler, both of whom were lingering too close to
her. His tongue was heavy in his mouth, and the sentence fell
from his lips inelegantly. “Please allow me to escort you out
on the dancefloor.”
“But you don’t even know my name,” the lady replied. A
smile nestled in the corner of her mouth as if it were quite
absurd that he should charge in.
George said something, but Jasper was not paying atten
tion. He positioned himself to block her from the sight of the
rest of the Set. It mattered that she did not have to deal with
them.
“I’m Lady Annabelle Bradley.” She was taller than a lot of
women of his acquaintance, but she still had to tilt her head
to look up at him. His eyes traced the line of her throat, the
beat of her pulse as she gazed up at him. Within her smile,
there was such comfort that he found the rest of his friends’
noise faded.
Unable to think of any further words, Jasper stretched out
his hand towards her. The sound of musicians playing a
country dance could be heard through the walls, and he
wanted more than anything to remove her from anything
salacious or unseemly that the Set might be inclined towards.
He felt guilty, certain that was the category his friends fitted
into.
Lady Annabelle’s eyes moved around the Set, lingering in
the left hand corner, before she took his fingers and allowed
him to escort her out of the hallway and through into the
ballroom. As luck would have it, there was a lull in the music,
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and a hush descended on the ballroom, allowing a great many

eyes to turn their way.
He forced himself to speak, although he had no desire to.
“I hope you do not judge me for whatever Lady Viola might
have been referring to.”
She let out a laugh as if he had said something amusing.
Jasper was used to such flattering indulgences, but it seemed
sincere from Lady Annabelle. Especially when she turned her
face towards his and shook her head, her gaze practical. “You
must know that whatever anyone says about me, I would
need to take heed of. Gossip can be a terrible burden for a
woman.”
“I would urge you not to care a whit for what anyone
says.” Jasper wanted to soothe her fears. “It would be done
out of jealousy, I am sure.”
“Then that is the mantra I will adopt. And hold you to it
if something goes wrong.” There was such warmth in her
statement that Jasper found himself smiling and wishing he
could think of something witty or flirtatious to say in reply.
But nothing occurred to him. His throat worked, swallowing
various pronouncements. None seemed good enough. He
wanted her. A tense, raging lust surged through his body,
making his tongue heavier than it normally was.
They were now in the middle of the ballroom, the set of
dancers forming around them. Jasper moved in the correct
pose, determined not to let himself be disagreeable. He was
aware, too, of all the eyes on them and how he felt like less of a
lummox with her by his side. From the looks, Jasper was sure he
was being admired. It stirred a strange, happy notion in his
chest, and the blur of social niceties was less painful. He turned
back to her and smiled. Lady Annabelle looked surprised for a
moment, but then she too copied his grin. Jasper’s chest soared.
“You dance well,” Jasper said as they bowed to each other,
16
the music having come to an end. He would have loved to

have suggested they partner for another dance, but he was
aware of the rules that governed the ballroom. He should
return her to her family, but what would be a good way of
extending their time together?
“Would you like some ratafia?” Why that happened to
occur to him, he could not say. He utterly lacked the charm
and inspiration that one of his friends might have had in his
place.
But Lady Annabelle nodded. He tucked her hand into the
crook of his elbow, pleased by the feeling of having her so
near to him. It was a heady sensation.
“How do you find the season so far?” she asked.
Terribly demanding. No, he couldn’t say that. Overwhelm
ing? No. She would think him a fool. “Most agreeable,” he
lied.
“It is quite a change from what I have seen before. Such
excitement, such crowds. I hear that there will be a firework
display at St James’s Gardens.”
“Indeed?” He felt sure he was being rather inane, but
nothing witty occurred to him. Think, Jasper, think of something
impressive or interesting to say, think. This desperate need to
generate something gained him nothing.
“I enjoyed our dance,” she o ered into the silence.
“It was indeed quite lovely.” They were at the refreshment
table, and he passed her the cherry brandy drink and watched
her take a sip, pinch her face at the strength of it, and then
laugh up at him. Her innocent enjoyment flooded all of
Jasper’s sensations, and he found himself beaming back
at her.
“Excuse me, Your Grace.” Jasper turned to see a middle
aged lady with silver blonde hair gazing expectantly between
Lady Annabelle and himself. The set of her chin was most
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distinct, as well as a gleam in her blue eyes that spoke of great

speculation.
“This my mother, Lady Bradley.” Annabelle divested
herself of her ratafia and motioned at the woman. “This is
His Grace, the Duke of Woolwich.”
“Are you staying in town?” he asked them both.
“Not far away,” Lady Annabelle began before Lady Bradley
cut in.
“I was just discussing this with my husband and how we
should be looking for somewhere closer to the delights of the
season, somewhere a touch more…” Her voice trailed o , and
Jasper gathered that they were not currently situated within
the boundaries of what society considered acceptable. He
wondered what this brave young woman considered unac
ceptable. One look at her expression and Jasper decided he
didn’t give a fig for such things; he would defy convention if
she needed him to.
With a rush of pleasure, Jasper wanted to ask Lady
Annabelle to know all her favourite things if she could help
him by being on his arm, what would he do for her? Knowing
all her dearest things, from who her girlish friends were, to
her preferred books, to her choice in bonbons and ices, to
whether she rode or preferred the countryside to town,
mattered a great deal to him.
“I hear,” he said, hoping to help them, “that there are
several suitable places available on Half Moon Street.”
“That you would recommend?” Lady Bradley pressed.
“I wouldn’t say I know the properties well,” Jasper said.
He was realising quickly how little the Bradleys knew about
the ton. Annabelle drew up her chin. She knew that he knew,
and it stirred his sympathies further. She was an impostor in
society, just as much as he felt like one. “But I believe they
may be up for rent for the whole of the season.”
Silence hung between them, and close by, there were gath
18
ering young men watching the unattached Lady Annabelle.

Realising that she probably wished to dance more, and not
wanting to set any more tongues wagging, Jasper bowed to
both ladies in turn. “I hope to see more of you.” He slipped
away, wishing to have added more, but no fresh ideas had
occurred to him. Without her address, he could hardly call on
her….
The rest of the young men rushed in, and Jasper was
grateful for his height that allowed him to cut through the
crowd. He kept his eyes lifted from whatever other hopeful
young ladies might try and catch his eye; his head was full of
Annabelle Bradley, and he had no intention of being swayed.
Reaching the corner of the room, where George, Silverton,
and Verne stood, he signalled for a stronger drink from the
passing server. He felt the need for the sweet security of
alcohol to bolster him now that he didn’t have Lady
Annabelle.
“You certainly put the cat amongst the pigeons, standing
up with that gel,” George remarked, the freckles on his round
cheeks moving as he mimicked dancing.
“I doubt that was Woolwich’s intention,” Verne said,
always the voice of calm rationality. Yet there was a knowing
gleam to his eye that Jasper did not like.
“No indeed,” Silverton interjected, “he is never one to
welcome attention.” His statement was rather accurate;
Woolwich danced rarely and could not remember the last
time he had. He had never been to Almack's. Perhaps he
would have to now. He finished his drink in one swift motion
at the thought.
As he had suspected, dozens of gentlemen flocked to
Annabelle’s side, eager to pencil in their names for the plea
sure of dancing with one such as she. Amongst them, Jasper
could see George’s younger brother Lord Richard, Trawler,
and Lynde as the ever gallant host. Like bees around a honey
19
AVA BOND
pot, they swarmed. She accepted Lord Richard’s arm and

swung away with him. For a fleeting moment, her smile was
bright, and Jasper was sure she was happier with Lord
Richard than she had been in his arms. He shook his head
and tried to clear such an idea from his mind.
The ball was continuing in high style. Numerous swirling
dancers joined the lively country set whilst musicians took up
the task of keeping the revellers entertained and those on the
edge of the dance floor.
“Not eager to try your luck?” Jasper glanced over at
Verne.
“I’ve always preferred brunettes,” Verne replied, and he
looked away from the busy dancefloor, something bitter
lingering in his eyes. Before Jasper could press Verne more
closely, they were interrupted by George.
“Since my initial wager stood, whoever finds the belle of
the season gets ten pounds,” George said. “The question
becomes, now that we have found her, what will we do
about it?”
“And you are so certain it is her?” Verne asked.
“Lady Annabelle seems to have caused a decided reac
tion,” George replied.
She was being led out by Lord Richard, and Jasper
watched with calculated disinterest as they manoeuvred their
way through the quadrille. Lady Annabelle hit each turn
precisely, whereas Richard looked decidedly bamboozled by
his good luck. Still, Jasper reasoned he had probably worn a
similar expression himself just a few minutes prior.
“I am not sure of the morality of betting on a woman,”
Silverton replied. “It is the sort of thing that might damage a
lady’s reputation.”
Before George could reply, Trawler and Lynde returned to
the group, having beaten a hasty retreat from the prospect of
dancing with any other debutantes. The two of them talked
20
and laughed amongst themselves; they seemed inclined to

agree with George’s assessment.
“Dashed pretty,” Trawler said. “Although she is tall.”
“We left half of the ton awaiting their turn with the
paragon,” Lynde added.
“Now I feel for Lady Viola,” Trawler said, his tone
sympathetic.
“She’s probably regretting volunteering up Lady Annabelle
to us,” George interrupted. “I bet little Lynde didn’t realise
how much it would come back to haunt her. Upstaged her,
Lady Annabelle has.” George’s brash comment annoyed
Jasper; he knew that was the sort of comment that might
damage Lady Annabelle in the eyes of the ton.
“Lady Viola will be fine,” Silverton remarked, watching
the chit swing past in the arms of a well regarded dandy.
“It is odd how quickly they must wed,” Verne remarked.
“It is most unfair. To think, the speed at which one must find
someone suitable.”
“They?”
“Women ”
“Ladies,” George corrected. “Are we then taking bets on
how long before Lady Annabelle accepts an o er of
marriage?” George asked.
Lynde laughed. “No more bets on ladies. My sister has
informed me.”
The conversation bubbled away around Jasper as he
watched the dancefloor, but he was not listening to any of
their talk. His mind, thoughts, and body were caught,
trapped by watching Annabelle. Of course, she was the sort
of lady one proposed to. Well, wasn’t that why he had come
to such an event, to find a bride?
The idea was a shocking one. At least, it would be to his
Set. But to him, it did not seem so strange. After all, he had
to wed. Why not a woman who made him feel confident in
21
AVA BOND
himself? One who enjoyed society and seemed keen to be

part of the ton. Surely, he reasoned that it was not so bizarre
to set his cap at someone. Especially since she had been all
but crowned the belle of the season… That would mean it
made sense to everyone else. As for himself, he clung to the
fleeting moment of vulnerability he had seen within his brave
lady and knew that that was why he liked Lady Annabelle so.
22
CHAPTER 3
I
t was a whirlwind of the most wondrous kind. As
Annabelle and her parents climbed into their carriage,
she was certain that she had died and gone to heaven
all because of a man. No, a lord. Her heart was full of Lord
Richard a member of the Set, yet the one written about
least in the papers.
That was because Lord Richard was the youngest of the
group and had just left university. He had mentioned this as
they’d danced. What turn of phrase had he used again? Oh,
yes. “The baby, as my brother delights in reminding me.”
She had teased him about only sort of belonging to the
Set; in fact, she rather liked this about Lord Richard.
“What a charming evening.” Mamma was grinning
broadly.
Annabelle settled back amongst the pillows of the coach
as they headed back towards their home. There was no suit
able reply, and in truth, Annabelle preferred to dwell in her
own thoughts before laying them out to be picked through by
her mother. Or worse her father, who knew so little of what it
was like to be an eighteen year old girl.
23
AVA BOND
“I must say that was more than I imagined possible,”

Mamma addressed the entire carriage while her husband
stifled a yawn. “You must have seen your eldest daughter with
the duke?”
“Did you have a nice time, dear?” her father asked.
“I already know she had a nice time,” Lady Bradley said.
“She was widely celebrated at the ball. I heard at least half a
dozen refer to her as a diamond of the first water.”
“How pleasant.” Her father settled himself back and
tugged o his cravat. “But pray, what were you referring to
earlier? Who was I supposed to see Annie dance with?”
“A duke. A real duke,” Lady Bradley said. “He was the
catch of the night. Of the decade. And he danced only with
you. Now, we need a house closer to town. The duke asked
where we lived, and I could hardly give him our address in
Putney. We will have to take up residence closer to the
action. It is a necessary expense,” Lady Bradley added, cutting
short whatever her husband had been about to say about
them moving. “I expect your man of business to have hired
one of the houses on Half Moon Street by the week’s end.
That was the address recommended to me by His Grace. I
will brook no argument on that.”
“For what purpose, ma’am?”
“Why, so that Annie will marry one of them, of course.”
“One of whom?”
Lady Bradley glanced towards Annabelle, her eyes calcu
lating and business like; she had other daughters at home, a
grand marriage would lift each one of them. “We aim for the
duke, and if we fall, we will at least land amongst the stars.”
Closing her eyes, Annabelle allowed her parents to discuss
the next week while all her dancing, swirling romantic
daydreams twisted and turned over with images of Lord
Richard. She started composing the silliest of poems to him,
24
and by the time they reached their Putney home, Annabelle

was determined to jot it down.
“Annie?” Her mother pulled Annabelle back as they
walked into the house. She gestured to her husband to
continue up the stairs as she guided her daughter into the
front parlour. It was shady and quiet within the front room,
with no lights but the summer moon to fill the space. Gener
ally, this parlour was used to entertain guests, so it lacked any
familial feeling or warmth. Lady Bradley proceeded to the
unyielding settee opposite the fireplace and motioned that
Annabelle should join her.
Tiredness flooded through Annabelle and listening to one
of her mother’s endless talks was not something she was espe
cially looking forward to. “Mamma, please can we speak in
the morning? My feet are aching.”
“This is a talk you will want to hear. One which is not to
leave this room.”
“It is a secret?”
Lady Bradley nodded. Even in the semi darkness,
Annabelle could see her mother’s face was anxious and that
this wasn’t to be a tirade on etiquette or her dancing steps.
Drawing nearer, Annabelle lowered herself onto the
settee, and Lady Bradley pivoted her body to face her daugh
ter. “I wish to share with you as many details as my mother
gave me the night before my marriage. So that you are
acquainted to the best of your knowledge with what men do
with women behind closed doors.”
“With their wives?” Annabelle asked. This information
was so closely guarded, and every young woman knew the
ritual details of sexual congress were given out only the day
before the wedding night. It was odd that Mamma was
choosing to break such traditions.
“If you inform your sisters or your father, or even your
25
AVA BOND
brothers, I will deny to the heavens I ever shared such infor

mation with you.”
Nodding, Annabelle leant forward, her curiosity alive and
burning away her tiredness; only one query lingered as she
awaited her mother’s revelations. Now the parlour did not
seem such a drab shell of a room but a wondrously secretive
place where her mother would finally share some much
needed feminine mysteries. And, of course, Annabelle could
lord this over her sisters when the moment came. That would
be fun. But there was still the question that flared within her.
“Why do you wish me to know so prematurely?”
“Clever one,” Lady Bradley patted her cheek. It was not
an entirely a ectionate movement, as if through the dark
ness, her mother could see and understand Annabelle far
better than her daughter wished. “I wish you to have every
advantage, and you do not have the same birth right or dowry
as some of the ladies you will be competing against. There
fore, you must know more. With someone like the duke
interested, we must try our darndest to succeed.”
“So, I can ”
“So, you can use this information to your advantage. Now,
are you ready? I will not be repeating myself.”
O VER THE NEXT WEEK , A GREAT MANY DECISIONS WERE

made out of Annabelle’s control. Nonetheless, she was told
that each change would contribute to her well being going
forward. Where the family was living Half Moon Street, in
a very fashionable if hideously overpriced townhouse, with
large front windows that gave the inhabitants an excellent
view of the avenue. What she should eat as little as possi
ble, to best to keep her waist and wrists trim was the order
down from on high. The only real control she had was scrib
26
bling down her silly love notes, her daydreams of Lord

Richard, before hastily shoving them in the grate to burn. It
did not help that whenever she’d ventured out to tearooms or
to take a stroll, she’d seen one of the Set and often, amongst
them, Lord Richard himself.
Every time they would dance together, take a stroll
around the gallery room, or he would fetch her some lemon
ade, Annabelle would remind herself that she was under
instructions to be seen and courted by a grander gentleman.
But he was so light and amusing, unburdened by serious
concerns, and always joking with her, that such pressures
slipped from her mind when she was with Lord Richard. She
would get back to her bedroom at the end of the day and jot
down all her romantic notions of him on hundreds of pieces
of paper.
One morning, she woke up to find her mother leafing
through her book. Scrambling out of bed, Annabelle rushed
across the room, snatching them. Lady Bradley watched her
closely as Annabelle held them tightly to her chest.
“So, it is Lord Richard, you’ve decided?” Her mother
moved away carefully and then went and sat in a nearby
armchair.
Sinking into the bed, Annabelle’s chest was beating
quickly. “Yes. I love him.”
Lady Bradley nodded. “He’s very young.”
“He’s nearly twenty three.”
“Just out of university,” her mother continued as if
Annabelle hadn’t spoken. “Has he given any indication that
he would be likely to propose?”
Desperately, Annabelle thought back through their
interactions over the last few weeks. She had been lucky
enough to receive many callers. Often, the Set would come,
two or three of them together. Richard was occasionally
amongst them. He never brought flowers. He never came
27
AVA BOND
alone. He never did what her other more obvious suitors

did.
Shaking her head, Annabelle said, “I just need more time.”
“When I said you should aim for the duke, it was in part
because I wish you to marry well. And he would be…” Lady
Bradley sat forward in her seat, her expression rapt. “He
would be an amazing match. But the other reason I said you
should try for him was because I saw the way he looked at
you. He has been the most exemplary suitor.”
Blast her, Mamma was right. Woolwich called almost daily
with flowers. He was always the first in line at the various
balls to secure his dances. He escorted her to supper. He was
the keenest of suitors. Whereas Richard was the suitor her
heart craved. “I am lucky.”
“I would suggest, if you want to bring Lord Richard up to
scratch, that you encourage the duke. Perhaps even allow him
the chance to steal a liberty.” Lady Bradley got to her feet,
giving her daughter a knowing glance. “Jealousy is often the
barb that sorts the wheat from the cha .”
With that pronouncement, Lady Bradley slipped from the
room, leaving Annabelle to ponder the wisdom of her moth
er’s words.
T HE FOLLOWING DAY , A NNABELLE ’ S MOTHER HAD DECIDED

they would make their way to Rotten Row, aiming to arrive in
the middle of the fashionable hour. The Row itself looked
nothing out of the ordinary, aside from it being packed with
fashionable people. Annabelle walked close to her maid as her
mother walked behind her, and despite the protection Sally
should have provided, Annabelle could not help feeling as if it
were too busy. Gentlemen in top hats strode in and out of the
Row, flashing past in their fashionable blue or caramel
28
coloured coats, as Annabelle tried her best to keep her eyes

downcast as a demure lady should do. But it was so tempting
to look up, to try to see more of the bustling London world.
“My lady.” Sally’s voice was almost swallowed up by the
rumble of some passing carriages. Finally lifting her eyes,
Annabelle found herself looking into the faces of Lord Lynde,
Viola, and Woolwich. Dipping a curtsey, Annabelle heard her
mother approach from behind and join her in greeting the
assembled group.
“How lucky to see you all,” Lady Bradley called out
happily. “I was only last night talking of how lovely Lady
Viola’s come out ball was. You were the most gracious of
hosts.”
“Not at all, ladies,” Lynde replied, looking between them
before moving back to his sister’s side. “I understand that is
where Lady Annabelle and my sister became firm friends.”
I would not go that far. Annabelle’s gaze drifted to the much
shorter girl a few feet away from her. It was di cult to
imagine being friends with someone who was her competi
tion and as an earl’s daughter, Viola was most definitely
that. Self consciously, Annabelle became aware of how
refined and expensive Viola’s walking gown was in contrast to
her own; the softest of buttercup yellows in stark contrast to
Annabelle’s pink flowered, possibly garish dress that seemed
purposely designed to draw attention to her.
Grinning back unabashed, Viola laughed at her brother’s
comment. “What you mean is that I dreadfully took advan
tage of poor Lady Annabelle. Dragging her here and there.”
Behind them loomed the uncomfortable Woolwich. He
was out of place, Annabelle thought, despite the gift of his
title; he felt it as more of a burden. It was odd to try and use
him as a tool. Annabelle felt a stirring of guilt. But surely
someone as fortunate as a duke could not really be looking so
far below himself to one such as her. Suddenly, his eyes turned
29
AVA BOND
to Annabelle, and they heated when he realised she was

staring at him. “My lady,” he cut o whatever Lynde had been
about to say. “Perhaps I might be bold enough to suggest a
stroll if your mother would not object?”
Lady Bradley waved them away and immediately started
talking with great animation to the Lyndes.
The duke stretched out his arm towards Annabelle. “Your
maid may accompany us too.”
Slipping her fingers through the crease at his elbow,
Annabelle hastily joined his pace, with Sally scurrying after
them as they proceeded away.
They walked in silence for several moments. Woolwich
had his own beauty it was of a more austere sort than Lord
Richard’s, a brutally severe kind that spoke of harshly drawn
lines, and a coldness in his irises that were such a pale blue
that it unnerved her. If she were going to stir His Grace into
great romantic flurries, he at least had to talk to her. “Thank
you for the fine flowers you brought to my house yesterday.
They were quite beautiful.”
He nodded, and they continued with their walk, winding
onwards past neatly trimmed bushes and ornate trees. Wool
wich made no reply at first, and Annabelle was about to strike
up another topic of conversation when he abruptly said, “Do
you have a preference?”
“I’m sorry?” she asked in confusion.
“Of flower?” He paused in the shallow indent of the hedge
to look down at Annabelle. When she glanced up, there was
an earnest expression on his face as if he was yearning to
know the answer.
“I like roses. I suppose that is the most uninteresting of
answers.”
He shook his head. “It makes sense to me. The finest of
flowers, for the finest of women.”
For one horrifying moment, Annabelle realised her maid
30
had vanished and because of the outcrop of trees, the pair of

them would be in part hidden from view. When she looked
back at the duke, she realised he stood close to her, his hand
cradling hers. If he were to propose, she thought this might
be the perfect time. And if he did, well, surely that would put
o other men? After all, what gentleman could hope to
compete with a duke? She realised she wanted Woolwich’s
interest, just not enough for him to actually marry her. It was
now or never that she should put her mother’s advice to use.
If she could make Lord Richard jealous, then surely, he would
come around and propose?
With a daring she did not quite believe herself capable of,
she stood up on her tiptoes, since Woolwich was so much
taller than her, and pressed her lips against his, cutting o
whatever he had been about to say. His frame was perhaps
twice the size of hers, she decided. For such a giant brute of a
man, his expression was one of surprised concern. A feath
erlight touch of her kiss, and then Woolwich stepped back,
lowering her to the ground, and bowing to her deeply. He was
shocked, and for a moment, Annabelle saw her dreams shriv
elling up and dying. Then Woolwich cursed under his breath
and caught her up in his arms, pulling Annabelle against him
roughly, their mouths locking together in a passionate kiss.
It was more than Annabelle had expected. It stirred
something in her chest and made her innards feel as if they
were flying o in di erent directions all at once, and for the
first time in a very long time, she forgot about Lord Richard.
It was delicious, she thought, as he lowered her back to the
ground.
“Forgive me, my lady. I forgot myself.”
Unable to resist, Annabelle lifted her fingers to her
mouth, her mind in riot, the tingling sensation throbbing
through her. “I forgive you, Woolwich.”
“Jasper. My name is Jasper.” The slightest of coughs
31
AVA BOND
sounded behind them as Sally drew nearer, and Woolwich

o ered her his arm again, all his formality immediately
returning. “Let me escort you back to your mother.”
Upon re joining the group, Annabelle agreed to the
planned museum outing the Lyndes had been discussing, but
her mind was otherwise occupied. Her head and heart
seemed to be pulling her in two opposite directions, with no
clear winner. When she looked up, she caught Woolwich
watching her, and she felt wondrously secure in his regard.
But then why did she still feel a pull towards Lord Richard?
As they all made their polite bows to depart and continue
down the row, Annabelle realised what it was that kept her
from wanting Woolwich to propose whilst she might have
liked his kiss, she did not know if she could tolerate a silent,
looming husband who had nothing to say to her. If she was
going to love her husband, she needed to know him. Know
him as she knew Lord Richard.
32
CHAPTER 4
O
ver the last few weeks, Jasper had come to the
opinion that as much as he admired, liked, and
probably could love Lady Annabelle, she did not
feel the same way. That was until she had kissed him. The
moment had shocked him and made him think he had clearly
misread the young lady. Perhaps he was a bad judge of young
women. He could hardly call himself an expert. It may be
common practise in polite society, but the idea of paying for
intimacies did not appeal to him. Beyond a couple of times
with a local village girl, Jasper had never indulged with any
other women. He had been delighted with Annabelle’s kiss
and hoped his sudden grabbing of her and delivering a more
full throated kiss had not shocked her.
The kiss could have been put down to mere curiosity on
Annabelle’s part until Jasper came home and discovered a
collection of the sweetest, girlish pieces of poetry and love
notes, clearly all directed to him. Somehow, Annabelle must
have slipped them into his pocket. His heart sang as he pored
over the pages. He recognised her hand from the time he had
33
AVA BOND
been in her parents’ parlour and noticed her scrawl in the

inside page of a novel.
So much for his fears about her preferring the company of
Lord Richard. The question was, when should he propose?
After their kiss and especially his reaction, it was the sort of
thing Annabelle had every reason to expect from him. It was
something he wanted to do too, something he had been
longing to do for far too long.
Leaving his house, Jasper hurried through the bustling
London streets, eager to find George. He wanted the reassur
ance that, were he to propose, it would not be a wasted e ort,
and from his observations, his main competition was in the
form of George’s younger brother, Lord Richard.
He found his layabout friends nestled in the corner of
Lady Kingfisher’s men’s club in St James Square, enjoying the
paper and some rather fine whiskey. Drawing up a chair,
Jasper made a slight allusion to Lady Annabelle and awaited
George’s reaction.
“Oh.” George dragged out the ‘o’ as if it was a joke. “You
want to know Annabelle better, do you? For a woman such as
her, a ring must be bought.” His voice carried. Other patrons
were situated at Lady Kingfisher’s comfy armchairs and
dotted throughout the room. Unlike White’s, it was less
commonly frequented, and there was a better chance of
finding luck on the Faro table unless you faced o against
Kingfisher herself. Thankfully, no one else looked up, and
when Jasper looked back, George was watching him
curiously.
“Keep your voice down,” Jasper muttered, suddenly
nervous. “Do you not feel any pressure to wed?” He thought
he might as well get it over with and face his demons. He did
not feel pressure himself per se, although he knew his mother
would be delighted should he marry, but it was more that he
feared losing Annabelle to someone else. His inkling that she
34
felt as much of an outsider as he did solidified, and Jasper

comforted himself that if they were wed, she would be secure,
and in turn, the pair of them would be safe.
“No, indeed.” George downed the rest of his drink and
pulled a face. “I have a younger brother. With Richard as my
heir, I can take my leisurely time.”
So, they had come to the sticking point. Lord Richard.
He knew the man the least amongst the Set. He was on the
younger side and still rather wild, but Jasper had liked the
man otherwise. Until he had seen him with Annabelle. A stir
ring of jealousy snaked through his stomach. Now his feelings
were decidedly cooler.
“If you don’t o er, I’ll wager some other cad will.” George
looked over towards the famous betting book in the corner of
the saloon. “With a face and figure as she has ” George
made a rather crude whistling noise, and Jasper swatted
at him.
“Do you think anyone in the Set will o er for her?”
“Richard was with her yesterday and said that they were
quite bombarded by admiring onlookers. Trawler told me that
she has racked up three proposals this week, but I doubt his
sources.”
“He is courting her too?” Jasper asked, his temper getting
the better of him.
“Trawler?” George looked confused. “The man is too
focused on his business to consider a bride. Although I am all
too aware that marriage is rather like a business for many
men.”
“No. Your brother.”
“Where did you get that idea?” For the first time that
afternoon, George looked annoyed. “Who has been saying
that? I won’t have it.”
Instant annoyance and protectiveness flared within Jasper.
“Wouldn’t Lord Richard be honoured to have such a lady?”
35
AVA BOND
“No, no, calm yourself.” George pulled the glass tumbler

from Jasper’s hand that he had been about to break. “All I
meant was, my brother is a babe in arms. He won’t wed until
he’s older. He has some growing up to do.”
Letting out a slow breath, Jasper sat back in his seat. He
was conscious of George’s eyes boring into him. If Lord
Richard was merely flirting and Annabelle had kissed him, he
need have no fear; he could propose to her without anything
marring his conscience. “Tomorrow, I am planning on intro
ducing Lady Annabelle to my mother,” he said, referring to
the dowager duchess of Woolwich.
George nodded, seeing how serious Jasper was, but then,
unable to resist, he asked, “What has the poor girl done to
deserve that?”
“If I am to propose, surely them knowing each other
would be a sensible course of action?”
“Can’t say I’d want to meet my prospective in laws in such
a formal setting. Wouldn’t it be better to wait until it’s too
late for anyone to back out? Perhaps at the church itself. Or
after she has presented me with an heir. Yes, that sounds like
the best idea.”
Getting to his feet, Jasper shook his head. “You are quite
absurd.”
George laughed. “Best of luck to you then.”
With a wave of his hand, Jasper turned on his heel and left
Kingfisher’s.
The proposal had to be perfect. Jasper had to have every
thing in place, including Annabelle’s acceptance by his
mother. Lifting his hand, Jasper rested it against the love
note, slipped in his waistcoat above his heart. It should have
given him strength, rather than make him doubt his worthi
ness of her a ection and it was time that he lived up to it.
36
D OWAGER K ATHERINE WAS LESS THAN IMPRESSED WITH

Jasper’s marital hopes; that much was clear as he watched his
mother’s pinched face. The two of them were sat politely in
the front parlour of the Bradleys’ home, neither of them at
ease. The parlour itself was fashionably papered, the furniture
well chosen and elegantly arranged, but for the first time,
perhaps because of the presence of his mother next to him,
Jasper was aware that the home was rented. And that would
be all that his mother saw. As far as much of society would
see, they did not belong together but what society did not
see was how Annabelle’s bravery inspired him, and Jasper
knew he needed that in a wife.
Shooting a pleading look at his mother for her to behave,
he looked back to Annabelle. For the briefest of moments, he
caught a look on her face that he couldn’t read, but it seemed
to say that she was uncomfortable. She disliked this. Doubt
twisted through him; did she not want him here? Why else
would she have kissed him and given him such imploring love
notes?
Jasper felt his tongue heavy in his mouth. Wildly, he
wished he had brought George with them because whilst the
man might be obscene, he would at least carry the conversa
tion. But it was Lady Bradley who sallied forth. “We were
delighted to be at Lady Briers just yesterday ”
“Yes, I prefer private balls.” The dowager got to her feet
and moved towards to the vast collection of flowers arranged
at intervals throughout the parlour. Jasper noticed several of
the bunches he had ordered and that they had been put in
pride of place. He had picked out blooms that he thought
would suit Annabelle’s romantic colouring: blue to match her
eyes, softest pink to match her blush, cream to match her
debutante’s gown. They were awash in pastels, and the scent
was overwhelming the parlour.
His mother looked back to Annabelle, her grey gaze pene
37
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trating. “I am told that you were the belle of the season. I see
you have a great many admirers.”
Annabelle coloured, her hands tense in her lap, but her
smile was delicate when she replied. “I certainly have been
treated most kindly.”
“There is a revival tonight at Drury Lane Theatre,” Lady
Bradley interceded before the dowager could reply. “I am told
that what I should say is that we intend to be in, umm, in
attendance.” Her sentence drifted o as she realised how she
must sound.
“Excellent,” Jasper replied. He too had stood when his
mother had gotten to her feet, and he realised that the
dowager wanted to leave. His mother’s expression made that
evident. Short as it had been, the meeting would not be called
a success. “I am a lover of plays.” It was a lie, but he certainly
would secure tickets now, and what hurt did it do? Annabelle
was watching him so closely, and her smile broadened at this
admission. “And I look forward to seeing you there.”
He bowed as his mother curtseyed, they exited the house
abruptly. Once they were on the street, his mother adjusted
her parasol above her head and muttered, “What can you be
thinking, Jasper? That girl will sink with the weight of the
duchy shoved on her, poor thing. It is clear that she is from
trade. She would not know the first thing about what would
be required of her if you were to ask her to ”
“Do not speak of Lady Annabelle in such a manner ”
There was the shu e of feet from behind them, and
Jasper whipped around to see Annabelle looking down on
them from the steps of her rented home. She held out one of
his gloves that must have slipped from his pocket.
“We thought it quicker than sending the maid. I…. Your
Graces.” She bobbed again and darted back inside before
Jasper could say a word to call her back. Clearly, she had over
heard his mother’s snobbish words. He moved to follow her,
38
but his mother’s hand shot out and held onto him. She made
a hu of annoyance and then lifted her eyes to the blue
heavens above before sighing.
“Let her be. A few hours trepidation never hurts young
lovers.”
“Mother ” he started to object. He needed to at least
apologise to Annabelle, but he hardly wanted to throw his
mother bodily from him. The street was beginning to fill with
other callers, and the dowager took a step, inching him
forward, her parasol now perfectly at an angle.
Jasper stu ed his glove back into his pocket as they
moved o . He burnt with shame at what Annabelle had over
heard, but he hardly wanted to make his apologies in her busy
hallway when at any moment a new fresh caller might spring
on her. “She is a dear, sweet young woman who has taken
London by storm. I do not doubt there will be di culties for
her, but Annabelle is beautiful, clever, and accomplished, and
she understands all too well the faults of society. I mean to
ask her to marry me.”
There was a pause as his mother considered his words. He
could see her battling against her instincts to say that his
decision was unwise, but to his surprise, his mother let out a
sigh. “I can see you have made your mind up about the chit.
Very well, very well. I will not cross you. We can at least walk
together, and I will set out what we will need to do for that
girl before the wedding. Because she may be unprepared now,
but I will not allow her to be so once you are wed.”
He decided to allow his mother this indulgence, and the
two of them weaved through the milling tra c on Half Moon
Street. Friendly greetings were called out when they spotted
someone of their acquaintance, and all the while, the dowager
picked her way through what Annabelle would need to know
before the marriage. By the end of their conversation and
their arrival at their next port of call, Jasper was almost
39
AVA BOND
grateful for his mother’s snobbish practicality. After all, it was

important he have all the facts to hand when he made his suit
to Annabelle.
In fact, by the time Jasper had reached Drury Lane that
evening for the play, he was looking forward to the show, but
far more to the interval and at the chance of seeing
Annabelle. He could hardly propose at the theatre, but he
could at least apologise for what she had overheard and then
ask for a private moment the next day.
His hands clenched as he entered the bustling theatre. It
was di cult to pick apart where one person blended into
another; there was a sea of bodies gentlemen in their dark
formal wear and white shirt fronts, and the ladies in their
wave of coloured gowns. Suddenly a precise, gloved hand
darted out and pulled him to a standstill. His gaze travelled
from the glove, up the woman’s shoulder, and then onwards
to Annabelle’s beautiful, upturned face. He felt a rush of
relief that he had not been blamed for his mother’s words.
“Your Grace,” she mouthed, but her words were lost due
to the high volume of people that surrounded them.
The Duke of Grisham swore as he knocked into the back
of Jasper, who moved forward protectively, shielding
Annabelle from the throng. The sheer number could almost
be threatening, and because of that, she moved closer to him.
“I had no idea we would be so… so ”
“Packed in like jackals?” he quipped.
“Indeed, Your Grace.” She smiled and tried to move
forward as a bustle of three young women hurried past. He
pulled her back to his side, and their fingers touched once
more. Neither of them separated when the ladies departed; in
fact, her fingers interlinked more tightly with his.
“Your Grace, do you think we should ”
“I wish you would call me Jasper.”
She dimpled. She was just a foot from him, her body
40
angled towards his. He could pick out the intricate pattern of

her soft grey dress, an intertwined crisscross of leaves that
ended in her translucent silver pu sleeves. An idea popped
into his head; they might find a secluded moment here I
could propose to her now.
She lifted her hand up to his shoulder to rest her palm
there. It felt as if she was keeping him steady. The gesture
decided him, and he steered them with slow steps back
towards the entry wall, where a secluded parlour was bless
edly empty. It must be a retiring room. He pulled them both
inside and pushed the door closed. It clicked shut, securing
them against the outside world.
Hastily he released her hand once she was sat in the hand
some settee. Her eyes followed him as he stepped backwards.
All around them were the heavy noises of the ton finding their
seats. It was now or never. He had her alone. It was the
perfect opportunity to propose.
“My lady.” His mind went blank, overwhelmed by the
sight of her creamy shoulders, her tilted head, and ques
tioning eyes. She had arranged her skirts out before her and
removed the shawl, placing it to one side.
“Woolwich, will you sit beside me?” She dropped her eyes
from his, drew o her gloves, and gestured to the settee. Her
exposed fingers reached out for him, and, unable to resist, he
moved to take her hands in his. Her skin was cold, despite
the warm spring weather.
“You’re shivering,” he said. He wished he had the smooth,
slippery abilities that Richard or even Lynde had; they knew
what turn of phrase a lady might want to hear. Sinking into
the seat next to her, unable to resist being close, her pulled
her more securely into his arms, the idea of proposing sliding
from his mind as he wrapped his arms around her.
Their lips met. As much as Jasper knew they should stop,
as soon as he had captured, no, tasted, the feel of her pert
41
AVA BOND
bottom lip, he couldn’t bear the thought of ceasing their kiss.

Her mouth was inquisitive, and he cupped the back of her
head, bringing her closer. She leant in, and he could feel the
sharp intake of her breath as their tongues met. He kept his
hands close to her face, but Annabelle seemed to have no
such scruples. Her fingers lighted on his shoulders before
inching their way inside his jacket, finding her way to the fast
beat of his heart.
Her touch ripped through his body, making his muscles,
tendons… God, he didn’t know enough about biology to list
every part of him, but his blood sang for her. It surged
through him, and his cock seemed particularly delighted in
her attentions, innocent though Annabelle’s movements
were. His tongue dipped deeper into her mouth whilst his
fingers traced the delicate shape of her neck, dropping lower
to feel the tops of her breasts and the thin silk that hid them
from view. It would be so easy to ease up her skirts, down
their undergarments, and be inside her in moments. He had
been dreaming of such a thing for weeks. But that was not
how one treated a future duchess, surely?
Tearing himself away from her, Jasper got to his feet.
Being away from her increased how on edge he felt. His
thoughts were a tumbling riot.
“Woolwich?” Her well kissed mouth formed his title.
Annabelle’s eyes were wide as she watched him pace about
the room. He was conscious of them being interrupted.
“Call me Jasper,” he asked her again. Suddenly, everything
else seemed distant, and all he wanted was to hear his Chris
tian name on her lips.
Her face was smiling as if it were a joke, and then it trans
formed as she stretched out her arms towards him in a silent
plea. She was too naïve, he was sure, to know what she was
o ering, but was he enough of a cad to take advantage?
“Jasper,” she said, standing up and moving closer to him.
42
One of her hands was resting on his waistcoat and the other
on the back of his neck, and Jasper could no longer remember
why he wanted to wait.
His lips went to the beat of her pulse in her throat.
Annabelle’s skin was soft to the touch, but the taste of her in
his mouth was divine. The two of them were pushing back
onto the settee, using it as if it were a bed. His tongue traced
over the grove of her collarbone and down to ease the mate
rial away and snatch up the pink tipped nipple that lay
exposed.
Annabelle let out a faint noise.
“Is that too much?” Jasper did not recognise his own
voice; it was gru .
“No, it’s lovely.” Her voice was faint, almost as if she
sounded embarrassed. She pulled loosened his cravat. Her
hands were seemingly very curious, only her face showing
some signs of caution, especially when Annabelle reached out
and stroked her fingertips over the shape of his excited cock.
He buckled at the movement. The earlier image of coupling
with Annabelle in this retiring room suddenly seemed far too
likely.
“My love,” his voice was even more urgent now. “Are
you ”
Her forehead was nestled close to his, and he felt
Annabelle nod. Closing his eyes in relief, Jasper lowered his
mouth and kissed her once more, grateful for her curiosity
and desire, which seemed to match his own.
43
CHAPTER 5
T
here was something overwhelming about being
crushed against Woolwich no, Jasper. She needed
to get used to using his first name. It was still too
intimate, despite what they were doing. His chest was
muscular and vast, and there was a power emanating from
him that both thrilled and confused her.
She was here with him, ready and at least somewhat
willing to close the deal, as her mother had crudely put it.
Lady Bradley had revealed that she had slipped several love
poems and Annabelle’s romantic notes into Woolwich’s coat
pocket when Annabelle had kissed him on Rotten Row.
Woolwich believed Annabelle to be in love with him.
“You’d be a fool not to be a duchess,” Mamma had said, and
with no guarantee that Lord Richard would propose,
Annabelle wanted to secure her future. If she couldn’t have
love, she would at least be one of the most important ladies
in society, and wasn’t that something?
Annabelle did feel a lot more comfortable with his large
hands moving over her body than she had previously. It was
amazing, really, because whilst she was not in love with him,
44
per se, there was nevertheless something rather wonderful in

the sensations he was making her feel. It began as an odd sort
of pulse that was growing and moving through her with a life
of its own. Rather like a hundred dancing pinpricks were
doing a jig both inside and outside her body. With each move
ment, she wanted to blush and scream. And these pinpricks
were being driven by Jasper’s hands.
It was bizarre but thrilling. Months ago, she would have
had no idea what it all that meant, but after her mother’s
revealing talk, Annabelle was now far better prepared. Not
that a talk would ever fully explain the heavy rush of sensa
tions that pumped through her, especially when Woolwich
reached out and cupped her breast between his overlarge
hand. He had removed his gloves too, and his skin was warm.
The sight of his fingertip padding in a slow circle around the
tip of her breast caused her to gasp aloud. She squirmed
against him. A smile curved his normally severe mouth.
Annabelle could hear the play beginning as a ripple of
applause sounded in the theatre. It should have been shock
ing, and she should have been horrified, but a part of her was
rather thrilled to be positioned so, beneath Woolwich. His
body pressed her down into the settee. It was as if she were
thumbing her nose at society whilst at the same time securing
her place within it, and that made her feel even giddier.
Perhaps she should have felt nervous, but she knew her
mother would deflect any questions, prevent anyone from
going to look for her. This would be the push Woolwich
needed, Annabelle was certain.
His normally harsh line of a mouth was trailing kisses
across her exposed skin and watching him further exacer
bated her breath. It was forbidden. That was it. They should
not have been doing so, and as his hand moved over the top
of her stockings, Annabelle realised that was why she felt so…
so… so…. His hand eased away a slip of material and stroked
45
AVA BOND
against the curls at the top of her thighs. With one finger, he
parted her until he was moving against the dampness he
found there.
She had been so good at being as wanton as she knew she
needed to be, but her confidence slipped then. “Is that…?”
Her eyes locked with his. Jasper was smiling at her so tenderly
it made her feel embarrassed.
“You are perfect.” With one gentle movement, his hand
moved deeper, finding the softest part of her, and pressing
against it in a repeated movement until Annabelle felt sure
her entire body was made of shivers. She shuddered against
him, the sensations building within her, bucking and crying
out to be released.
Jasper sat back. She could see how he wanted her, she had
felt him earlier, but she did not quite dare reach out again.
She supposed if she were braver or more knowledgeable, she
would loosen the buttons of his breeches. He was moving
away from her.
Reaching out, Annabelle lifted and pressed herself against
him. “Please.”
“If we ”
“I want to,” Annabelle cut him o . It wasn’t a lie. She did
want him, wanted to have him close to her. She was tired of
feeling scared and alone, and the solace and joy there was to
be found in his kiss frightened away her fears.
“I hoped you felt the same,” Jasper said. He covered her
face in kisses. “I’ve heard it can be painful, but I will try to be
as careful as I can.”
With consideration, he secured Annabelle more firmly
onto the settee, lifting her grey dress and easing down her
drawers. Any embarrassment she might have felt vanished
because of the heated look in Jasper’s eyes. There was a deep
thrill in being wanted so that buried any nervousness.
He moved away briefly to lower his breeches, and when
46
he moved back to her, she caught sight of him. His manly

rod, Mamma had called it. The name had made her giggle,
but it didn’t feel quite so funny now, pressed against her
thigh. She knew it was meant to fit inside her, but the idea
seemed absurd. Much like the rest of Woolwich, it was far
too big. But he was back to kissing her throat and neck, even
leaning up to nibble at her earlobe. All the while, his hand
had returned to press and play with her intimate area until
she was quite sure his fingers would be coated in her
dampness.
He pressed more closely, making a pattern against her
flesh until Annabelle could not resist anymore, and she cried
out, a rush of fierce emotion overwhelming her and bringing
tears to her eyes. Moving forward, Woolwich positioned
himself so that their hips aligned and lifted himself against
her entranceway. He looked down at her, his expression
intense.
“I love you,” he murmured as he pressed in more closely,
his hips closing the distance, and his flesh sliding into her. It
created an intense feeling of invasion, as if he was claiming
her.
There was a spasm of pain, which eased as Woolwich
adjusted himself. The feeling of being stretched made
Annabelle want to throw him o her, but she kept still. She
had been right; he really was too big.
Once rooted inside her, Woolwich began to slowly shift
backwards and forwards. The sensation was uncomfortable at
first as it stretched her further, but when his hand reached
down and stroked against that nubbin of her flesh, those
earlier sensations flooded through her, and Annabelle felt a
giddy rush of relief. This was good, the invasive feeling was
lessening, and those intense pinpricks returned. Tentatively,
she lifted her hips and copied his movements. It caused
Woolwich to smile down at her.
47
AVA BOND
“Good girl.” His voice was husky, and that added another
rush of feeling. She wanted him to talk more, to whisper
encouragement. She wriggled enthusiastically, ignoring any
sensations of pain in a desire for more dancing joy. As she did
so, Woolwich gasped, his hips moving hastily against her, his
eyes wide as he bucked inside her, the movements stirring
her, his hands pressing her too.
Those pinpricks were returning, flooding through her,
causing Annabelle to cry out. Distantly, she heard Woolwich
emit a similar sound, and when she opened her eyes, she
found him straightening himself and carefully adjusting her
gown. He fluttered kisses over her face and held her as she
grew more comfortable. There was power in such an act.
Woolwich had been so gentle, careful, and loving. He was the
gentlest of men despite his size and strength. In many ways,
she was lucky.
“I must look a sight,” she murmured. She was conscious of
the dampness, the soreness of her internal muscles, and the
sudden loss of him. It made her feel clingy, as if she wanted
nothing more than to throw herself at him again.
But Woolwich seemed to anticipate this, and his hand was
cupping her face, bringing it up for a kiss. “You’re beautiful.”
She dimpled. She would have preferred a long poem or for
him to list why he thought her so, but she could get used to
Woolwich’s more abrupt style. His hands dropped, and he
squeezed her shoulders.
“I do not think we should be seen together. I will send a
maid to you and leave. Your reputation I should have taken
advantage. I know I should have known better. But do not be
afraid. All will be well.”
“I ”
“I will call tomorrow,” he cut her o . “And we will discuss
our engagement.”
With one final kiss on her forehead, he slipped from the
48
retiring room, leaving Annabelle alone with her confused

feelings. Nothing Mamma had told her had prepared her for
anything like that. She had been a fool not to realise it sooner,
but all of her confused emotions that had told her to care for
Richard had been foolish vanity. They hadn’t allowed her to
see the manifest qualities of Jasper.
Crimson coloured her cheekbones; it should have been
for her actions behaving as she had. It was hardly the
behaviour of a proper debutante, and yet it seemed as if
Jasper still wanted her.
A small giggle escaped her lips as she tidied herself up and
slipped back into the theatre. She was lucky that her foolish
ness had not cost her the love of a good man.
T HE NEXT MORNING , L ADY B RADLEY SENT UP AN

additional chocolate for Annabelle as her reward. Stirring the
mixture and contemplating her wardrobe, Annabelle tried to
sum up her feelings; she knew her mother would want to
know them or as many as Annabelle was willing to share.
She had faith, complete faith, that Woolwich would come
this morning and propose to her as he had promised.
With Sally’s help, she dressed in her favourite sprig muslin
gown of lavender. Sally wove a thin matching ribbon through
Annabelle’s curls, and she nodded at her appearance in the
mirror.
“You look very pretty, my lady.”
“Thank you,” Annabelle said, believing her. When Sally
came to fetch her at ten, Annabelle was ready to be proposed
to.
The sunlit front room in Half Moon Street had been
cleared, the numerous flowers and associated love notes that
Annabelle had received over the last month swept up. In the
49
AVA BOND
middle of the parlour was a man whose elegant frame

stretched out in the settee. His brown hair was too long, and
his grin was that of a rogue. What was he doing in her
parlour, bright and fresh as a daisy, as if she had not resolved
to forget all about him?
“My lord.” She tried to sound as formal as she could. She
had to get him out of her parlour before Woolwich arrived.
That much was obvious.
“Such a perfect lady.” He stood and bowed, an ironic twist
to his mouth. “I’m here to invite you to Greenwich for a
picnic. We have been talking about the idea for weeks, have
we not? Well, I have settled on today and ”
“Thank you, but I cannot, not today.”
“It will be the most delightful fun. And I have even
managed to secure some of that French poetry you swore was
the best,” he said, recalling their conversation from a
week ago.
“I cannot today,” she repeated, forcing herself to look
away from Richard and move across to the bookcase. What
was he doing in her parlour when he clearly was not here for
the reasons the other gentlemen came? He was not being fair
to her. It dawned on her that it was his immaturity that held
him back he had the potential to be a better man, but his
youth did him no favours.
“More suitors’ hearts to break?” There was such an odd
note to Richard’s question that Annabelle looked back
at him.
“It is my lot to look for a groom. And one day soon, I am
sure you will look for a bride,” Annabelle said.
Lord Richard, who had stepped closer on his last ques
tion, moved away, lightly placing down the book of poems.
“Lud,” he laughed. “I can’t imagine that being any time soon.”
“No?” Annabelle forced herself to say. Had she imagined
all his lingering, hungry looks? The way he had held her when
50
they danced? Had she misread the book of poems and what
they meant? She looked up and met his green smiling eyes, all
friendliness and humour, but without any intention of gracing
her with a proposal. Annabelle felt a swell of annoyance that
she had ever bothered with him.
“When I’m older, and George says I can, or I must, I
suppose. You will be quite the matron by then, I shouldn’t
wonder.”
“Indeed.” Annabelle hardly recognised her voice.
“You will have to help me find a bride.”
“I’m afraid you must go, my lord.” Saying it might once
have brought tears to her eyes, but now she felt relieved.
“Have I done something to o end you?” Lord Richard
frowned, confused.
“No, indeed. But I do not wish to make you late for your
picnic.”
“I see, another suitor on bended knee pencilled in. I
suppose you are quite racking them up now.” He dusted o
his hat. “Well, when you’ve finished making mincemeat out of
the latest one, do come along and have some fun.”
Annabelle bobbed a curtsey and let him go, swallowing
down all the things she wished to say before darting to the
window when he was out of the parlour. She was as simple as
a moth to a flame, unable to entirely break away from his
thrall. She watched him walk down the street with all his
carefree ease, not realising what he left in his wake.
“I send you to the devil,” she declared and hoped it would
work to heal any lingering feelings she had for him.
Closing her eyes, Annabelle leant back, adopting the same
pose as Richard had been in and allowing her muscles to
relax. Tears filled her eyes, and she scolded herself that she
was being a fool, chasing after Richard when he had no
interest in her. And even if he could be enticed, she had no
chance of winning him now.
51
AVA BOND
“My dear?” The masculine voice had a questioning tone

to it.
Scrambling into a more ladylike position, Annabelle
hoped it would not be Richard returned, but before her
towered Woolwich. The nervous energy that had bounded
through her lessened. He was immaculately dressed in a navy
ensemble, his hair freshly cut, and in one hand, he clutched
an ornate bouquet of red roses. Woolwich was not what she’d
imagined wanting, but now nothing could be sweeter than
the sight of him.
“Don’t cry.” Woolwich’s words were awkward and sti in
his throat. He came closer, shoving the flowers next to
Annabelle on the sofa and dropping to his knees in front of
her. He claimed her unresisting hands, clinging onto them.
“Were you fearful I wouldn’t come? I promised I would.
Here.” He pulled a velvet box from his coat pocket and
opened it up on Annabelle’s lap. “I’ve already sent my secre
tary to secure a special license for us. You need not be afraid
of anything scandalous.”
His thoughts were on her reputation, which Annabelle
knew should be preoccupying her too. The ring was magnifi
cent, a huge sparkling diamond set about with rubies, the sort
of piece that was best described as divine. But she wanted
some daring declarations of a ection to accompany it. She
wanted something closer to smooth, soul capturing poems
but instead knelt a sweet, mumbling giant that she feared
would never understand her. The problem was her.
She hastily smiled, the grin hurting her face as she looked
at him. But he believed her and returned the happy look.
“Will you try the ring on?”
Annabelle o ered her hand and carefully slid the engage
ment ring onto her finger. To her surprise, it fit snugly and
securely. The shining stone glinted up at her, reminding
Annabelle of the wonderous things Woolwich would shortly
52
bring into her life a security that she had never thought
romantic, but that was suddenly vitally important. Her
romantic delusions were vanishing when the reality of her
man was before her. Jasper was not what she had daydreamed
for herself, but perhaps this was far better. She knew that the
two of them together were good, better than that her girlish
fancies now centred on and swirled about Jasper, pinning her
hopes and dreams on him.
“I have not asked your father’s permission, and I would
not be so…” Woolwich stopped. Clearly, he was embarrassed
by last night's activities and had no idea of how to talk about
it to her. “So indelicate as to speak of it, but in light of what
occurred, a speedy marriage would be the best course of
action.”
“With your license secured, I do not think my father
would object.” No, Annabelle could think of no reason why
either of her parents would raise any say against their union;
the Bradleys were the ones so keen for her to wed the duke.
“Come.” He pulled Annabelle upright and took her arm,
smiling down at her kindly. “Shall we tell them the good news
together?”
Annabelle allowed herself to be led from the parlour, her
hands interlinked with Jasper’s. Was there any girl in London
luckier than her?
T O BE CONTINUED IN T HE M ARQUESS ’ S A DVENTUROUS

Miss…
53
A NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR
Dear Readers,
I really hope you enjoyed reading The Debutante’s Duke and

that you are tempted to read the rest of The Oxford Set.
I love to hear from readers and can be reached on my social

media platforms below
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And if you would like to write a review that would make me

so happy!
Read on for a sneak peek at Book One in the Oxford Set

Series, The Marquess’s Adventurous Miss.
55
THE MARQUESS’S
ADVENTUROUS MISS. SNEAK
PEEK.
Brayton Manor, Cumbria, July 1810

Richard Cavendish, Marquess of Heatherbroke, sat in his
family home in his father’s one time study, feeling over
whelmed by responsibilities. He wasn’t sure it was acceptable
for a marquess to be overwhelmed. But there was no getting
away from it, he was. Papers cluttered his desk, whilst before
him stood his slight, balding, and rather harried looking
lawyer, Mr. Forshaw. The man was reciting a long list of
Richard’s duties.
Just six months ago, none of these things had been a
worry for Richard. He had been able to sail through polite
society, playing the part of the feckless, but rather charming,
younger brother of the Marquess of Heatherbroke. It had
been a good life, filled with ton parties, balls, races, either on
horses or by boat, with far too many hours idled away with
his dear friends, the Oxford Set as they had been christened.
It hadn’t been chosen, more of a nickname that had stuck to
the lot of them, the Marquess of Heatherbroke, Duke of
Woolwich, Lord Lynde, Mr. Trawler, Viscount Silverton, and
57
THE MARQUESS’S ADVENTUROUS MISS. SNEAK PEEK .
Baronet Verne, as well as Richard himself. Of course, they

had enjoyed the notoriety that came with their arrival into
the ton. Each of them was good looking, from well connected
families, and never long out of each other’s company. They
had gone to the races, the palace balls, to Almack’s, too, but
no more than once a month. On occasion, they had been
mentioned in the scandal sheets or in the betting book at
White’s. In short, they had set London ablaze.
Richard had been a late addition to the Set, allowed in
because of his older brother, but he nevertheless felt a great
a nity with them. It had been a great deal of fun, “a lark,”
like life had been paused so that Richard could enjoy himself.
But all that had changed with the death of his brother, the
Marquess of Heatherbroke. Dear, dear George. Then all the
responsibility had fallen to Richard.
“My lord?” Mr. Forshaw spoke with more volume, drawing
Richard’s attention back to the study. Mr. Forshaw stretched
out his gloved hand and passed yet another sheet to Richard.
“And this is?” Richard asked. He had only had six months
to adjust to being the marquess. To being Heatherbroke.
George had had his whole life to prepare, had been raised to
assume the title. Richard had not. There had been some talk
of the law, or possibly setting up business with one of the
other members of the Set. But Richard had fallen into the
habit of putting it o . Looking back at his earlier self,
Richard felt a curl of disgust at his own laziness.
Duty bound, he followed the lawyer’s instructions and
dropped his head to start looking through the new pages.
The numbers and letters pooled this way and that, but
Richard knew the estate needed to economise. The impor
tant thing now was protecting the Heatherbroke name and
his numerous tenants.
“The Mayfair house. It’s costing more than 800 a year,
58
with everything included,” Mr. Forshaw said. “I thought that

might be unnecessary if you were to stay up here…”
Perhaps, Richard thought as he flicked through the pages,
wondering how anyone sane ever tolerated a Season. Perhaps,
he would have been able to manage this new role had he not
been robbed of his family. George was all he had had left. His
father and mother were gone. In this whole world, there
remained only his grandmother whom he loved. Still, he told
himself, self pity wouldn’t help. He had been an idle man, and
there were people who depended on him to be more than
that. He needed to rise to the occasion; it was expected of
him. He could at least make his family proud. Going forward,
that would be his aim.
“Close the place down, except for a skeleton sta . I will
discuss with the dowager if she would like to visit in the next
year.”
“Very good, my lord,” Mr. Forshaw said with great prim
ness. He was at least twice Richard’s twenty four years.
Richard had known the man since infancy and was grateful
for his many years of loyal service, since he had worked for
both of the last marquesses.
Getting to his feet, Richard moved across to a nearby
dresser, sliding open one of the drawers. “I should have said
earlier, but I wanted you to have this. It belonged to my
brother. He valued you, as did my father.” He handed Mr.
Forshaw a bible, which had belonged to George and had a
handwritten inscription in it.
Mr. Forshaw’s pale eyes bulged in surprise, and he swal
lowed audibly. Richard turned away and looked to the mirror,
giving Mr. Forshaw time to compose himself. Intense expres
sions of grief made Richard sure he, too, would break down.
He glanced at his own appearance, one which had once been
a matter of immense pride and a lot of time and care. Previ
59
ously, he had spent hours every day with his valet, perfecting
his look. The break from the city had brought a collection of
youthful freckles over his nose and left his dark, curled hair
too long, but otherwise he remained the same, a quirk to his
lips, green brown eyes, and the same haughty look he had
learnt, despite how its everyday use gained him nothing.
Turning, Richard found Mr. Forshaw standing close by. “It
might not be my place to say it, but I think both of the late
Heatherbrokes would have been proud of what you’re doing.
I believe you are setting their plans in motion.”
“I never wanted it,” Richard said. He needed Mr. Forshaw
to know that. The older man nodded, wet his lips, and
opened his mouth to speak but was stopped when there was a
loud shriek of sound that retched through the halls of
Brayton.
“Are the French coming ” Mr. Forshaw’s sentence was
cut o when the door of the study flung open.
On instinct. Richard went for the pistol but stopped
short at the sight of the man in the doorway. It was Wool
wich. He had always been the tallest of the Set, but today, he
seemed to have grown even larger. His blue eyes were icy, and
he resembled more of a marauder from centuries back than a
dignified duke. Richard gazed back at the man, his brother’s
closest companion, his supposed friend, and from Woolwich’s
face, Richard knew. Knew with absolute certainty that his
shameful secret had been discovered. Richard looked away in
embarrassment. “God, you dog,” Woolwich grunted and
started across the study.
“Sir!” Mr. Forshaw was in his way and had not got out a
word before he was shoved aside and thrown unceremoni
ously to the floor.
“Really,” Richard began to say; it was fair that Woolwich
try to take him apart, but it wasn’t permissible for Forshaw to
be attacked. No one else should su er for his mistake.
60
Woolwich strode forward, his face livid, looking fully

capable of murder. It wasn’t normal for him to be like this; he
was, or had always been, a good, generous man. A touch
cynical but nevertheless thoughtful, kind… it was gone.
Behind him, the door was pushed wider, and Richard saw
his grandmother and Silverton, Verne, and Lynde, enter the
study. Before he saw anyone else, Woolwich slammed his fist
in Richard’s jaw. The sheer force of it knocked Richard back,
but he managed to stay on his feet. He looked away from the
door, back to the furious man before him. His grandmother
shrieked, and one of the Set held her back.
“You know why I’m here, don’t you?” Woolwich asked, his
voice low.
It only took the raising of Richard’s eyes up to Woolwich’s
for the duke to make a furious noise at the back of his throat
and raise his fist again. This time Richard didn’t try to stay
up. He let his body relax, and the hit sent him to the floor.
Woolwich was here for blood; he may as well let the man
have it. Sprawled down on the carpet, Richard reflected that
he deserved this. His mouth filled with the taste of iron.
“Get up,” Woolwich said, and with great reluctance,
Richard rolled onto his side to view the rest of the inhabi
tants of his study. It would have been bad enough if it had just
been of them, but it was all the Set. His iends, whose eyes were
on him. Which meant Woolwich must have told them what
Richard had done.
“Woolwich,” Verne’s voice was calm and measured, his
slight French accent peeking out, “If you kill him, it will cause
a scandal. Aren’t we here to ensure that doesn’t happen?”
“If this is a matter of honour, have a duel,” Richard’s
grandmother said. She looked almost as angry as Woolwich.
The dowager had pulled herself out of Lynde’s hold and
moved over to help Forshaw up. Her grey hair was piled high
on her head, and it wobbled as she moved, her cap at a rakish
61
angle. Richard could not resist the idea that she would prob
ably have to serve as his second, as no one else in the room
would. He forced himself to his knees.
“This…” Woolwich’s eyes travelled back to Richard. “This
cur has no honour.”
“I would like to know. I am entitled to know what you
accuse my grandson of.”
Richard braced himself for the revelation. Woolwich
would say Richard was a seducer, a damned blaggard, for
taking advantage of the angel like, beautiful Annabelle,
Duchess of Woolwich. He would be named and shamed; that
was inevitable. How Woolwich had discovered their brief
a air, or terrible mistake, as Richard thought of it, he had no
idea. Annabelle’s flowery romantic letters had been hidden
away, stu ed into a drawer in his desk.
Had she been fool enough to send another one that had
been intercepted?
“He tricked my wife to bed.”
Richard, who had gotten to his feet in order to best face
the embarrassment, turned in bewilderment to Woolwich.
“That isn’t true,” he said, his voice hoarse. The accusation was
even worse than he could have imagined. The humiliation
more acute. But even to his own ears, he sounded childish.
He turned to his grandmother and grasped her hands. “I
swear to you.”
She nodded, although she was very pale. Richard looked
past his grandmother, to his assorted friends who were
watching the proceedings. None of them would meet his eye.
It was a solid confirmation he had only ever belonged to the
Set as an obligation to George, and now they cut him.
“Are you going to claim it was love?” Woolwich asked,
scorn dripping o every word. He looked like he wanted to
murder Richard and barely kept himself in check.
62
In his mind’s eye, Richard saw himself go to the cabinet

and withdraw Annabelle’s letters. There were five in total,
sent to him after their one fateful night together. Why he’d
kept them, he couldn’t even say. It wasn’t supposed to be a
way of holding something over Annabelle’s head. More that
he wanted to hold on to a reminder of the mistake. He could
use them now to excuse himself, but then he would be
throwing Annabelle into the path of Woolwich’s fury. She
would be ostracised if he did that.
“It was a mistake right after George’s death,” Richard
said. He could feel everyone’s eyes on him. Part of him
wished the rest of them would leave, let him confess to how
drunk he’d been, how vulnerable, without everyone judging
him. “I can only apologise for the grave error on my part.”
Able to read his desperation, the dowager strode away
from the recovering Mr. Forshaw and opened the study doors
that looked over the stone steps and led down into the
peaceful gardens to the rear of Brayton. The cool summer air
rushed in, and the dowager grabbed the two of the men
nearest to her, Silverton, and Trawler. “Out,” she said. “This is
a serious accusation between His Grace and my grandson. I
don’t see why this involves the rest of you.” Her tone was
firm, fully that of a dowager marchioness. The Set followed
her out, with only Lynde lingering behind.
Lynde shot Richard a strained look of hurt disbelief.
Nicholas Lynde was Richard’s dearest friend amongst the Set.
His clear sighted and azure eyes were filled with disappoint
ment. With a betrayed sigh, Lynde shook his head at Richard.
He followed the rest of the Set out.
Woolwich had likewise watched the others leave. He sank
into one of the armchairs close to the desk. He was still angry,
but Richard could also see there was something else there
too, an element of smug satisfaction. This had been part of
63
his plan. Humiliate me, cut me off om the Set. It is what I deserve,

Richard thought.
Letting out a sigh, Richard looked back at Woolwich. “Do
you want to call me out?”
“I want no one beyond the Set to know of this.” Wool
wich leant forward in his seat, fixing Richard with his cold,
hypnotic eyes. “I wish to avoid a scandal.”
“I cannot go abroad.”
In response to this, Woolwich smirked. “The idea of you,
a useless wastrel, taking on George’s mantel ” He cut
himself o . “Enough. I tell you, you will stay away from
London. You will never speak to my wife again.”
“Are you going to divorce her?” The scandalous note that
this added to the room made the guilt in his stomach writhe.
“Would you like that? So you could wed her?”
It would be the honourable thing to do in a terrible situa
tion, Richard knew that. He knew, too, that whilst he cared
for Annabelle, he was never going to fall in love with her. “If
that is what you need me to do.”
“No.” Woolwich was on his feet. Once more, there was a
furious glint behind his eyes. “You don’t get to come in and
destroy a marriage. She is to go into the countryside and
remain secluded.”
“If Annabelle ”
“Don’t you dare use her name.”
“I never tricked her.”
The duke made a small tutting noise, and Richard leapt
on it. “You know I didn’t. You know she’s in love with me.”
A shadow passed over Woolwich’s face. “It is my word
against yours, the untried, unprepared son, nothing more
than a wastrel. All the Set knows the story I have told them.
If you try anything, you will be ruined by those in the aristoc
racy, those in trade, and those in the military. Don’t our
friends fill some important roles?” His joke was bitter, and
64
Richard had no reply. Woolwich was right, the Set members

had found powerful roles. They had influence and were
prepared to blacken his name should Richard do anything to
reveal the truth.
“Annabelle was given a choice,” Woolwich continued. “A
man who didn’t want her or to stay with a duke whom she
had fought so hard to win.”
“You lied to them,” Richard said, indicating the Set with a
nod of his head towards the gardens, “so that you would not
be labelled a cuckold.”
“Do not think there was any advantage in this for me. I
did this to protect my wife and her reputation.”
“And in doing so, you get your revenge. You get to destroy
me.”
“You cannot…” The gleam vanished, and Woolwich
smirked. He almost seemed to be enjoying the confrontation.
“Come now, you must know how I discovered it.”
Richard’s brain had slowed down, so that everything he
thought seemed to be laden down with treacle, until it finally
clicked. “She is with child.”
“It cannot be mine,” Woolwich said.
His slow moving mind whizzed forward, alive with the
ideas, calculating it all and realising what had happened.
Annabelle and he were together only one night. In January.
The night George had died. A drunken night which he
thought had been consigned to the past. Woolwich had been
in Paris, unable to make it back, not even for George’s
funeral. It had been many weeks before the duke had
returned to England. “You must divorce her, and I will wed
her.”
“That is not for you to demand. She will deliver the
child.” Here, the harsh, strict elements that Richard had
suspected but never witnessed, poked out from beneath the
duke’s façade. “And you will forever wonder where your child
65
is. Where I might have placed it and with whom. That will be
your punishment. Shall I send your son o to some gambling
hell? Your daughter to a brothel? What I have done with the
baby… that can be the only fit punishment for you. It will not
bear my name.”
He had moved closer to Richard, and when he was
finished, he spat in Richard’s face before turning and leaving
the study to stand outside in the fresh, cool air amongst
decent men. His words burrowed into Richard’s skull, chim
ing, and hurting with the implications.
“Richard?” His grandmother was moving through the
study, her hand raised, and for a moment, he thought she
would stroke his cheek. Instead, she slapped him. “What
were you thinking?”
“I never forced myself on or misled Annabelle. She’s…
she’s with child.”
“Blast it,” the dowager muttered. Her sharp eyes went
round the room before she marched back to the study door.
“Mr. Forshaw, a moment please.” Sliding back into the room,
the lawyer was looking worse for wear. “I trust you to keep
silent on today’s proceedings.” The lawyer nodded; his face
was still pink from where he’d hit his head.
“Woolwich said there will be a child,” the dowager
repeated.
He had ruined it a , even the poor child’s life.
“He said he’d take it to a brothel,” Richard replied, his
stomach churning.
“Can we claim the child?” the dowager asked. “Better than
letting the mite be shipped to god knows where.”
The study looked wrong, with its elegantly kept books,
polished oak furniture, Chinese carpets, and paintings by
Kneller and Reynolds. The room had housed his father, and
here was Richard, further spoiling his family’s reputation.
Distantly, he could hear the sounds of the Set leaving, their
66
voices raised, and headed towards the stables. They had

arrived to see his humiliation; they had believed Woolwich. A
flare of anger ignited in his stomach. Did they know what was
intended for his baby?
“It is not my area of expertise,” Mr. Forshaw said, “but if
the child is christened, and no one claims to be its parents…
If the duke does not let it be christened with his name,
then…” Mr. Forshaw flushed. “It would be named a foundling,
rather like an orphan. Provided you could locate the babe,
there would be no reason why you could not raise the child as
your ward.”
“At least I would be able to rectify that,” Richard said. It
was only an idea, a glimmer of hope, his unborn child, a silver lining
in such a wasted life. It is my chance, no, it is my only chance at
salvation.
London, April 1814

Richard was on a mission. His tight lipped expression
aged him past his twenty eight years, adding gravity to his
features and grit to his expression. He was returning to
London in a high speed chase, at the request of his recently
hired Bow Street runner, Mr. Clifton. The runner’s note
assured Richard that there was finally news of his child.
Clifton had some promising new leads that needed to be
heard in person. In truth, over the last few years, Richard had
heard so many di erent tales that he had almost lost hope.
Since that fateful day, that dark day as he thought of it, there
were only the Heatherbroke estates and the quest for the
child. In a way, he told himself without much humour, the
desire to locate the baby had replaced, or become a welcomed
distraction from, the loss of his dear brother. An urgent,
overwhelming desire to find the child at any cost.
67
Tightening his fists, Richard wished the carriage would

go faster. He disliked returning to London, but needs must.
Most of his business was contracted through Forshaw and
his associates, but Clifton promised that the lead was
genuine.
The child. His child was a girl. Hidden deep in his waist
coat pocket, was a sketch of the child, the mirror image of
her mother. Years back, his hirelings had combed through
foundling hospitals, but without much hope. Richard had had
the recurring dream that Woolwich had thrown the child into
the Thames.
“Drive on,” Richard muttered as he fidgeted in his squab.
He could have sworn he would have been able to drive the
blasted thing faster. They must be nearing Oxford by now.
They had stopped only to change the horses, the drive down
lasting hours. It was getting dark, the cloudless sky blacken
ing. I wi be there soon, Richard promised. If I am lucky, I could
see my child within days.
Leaning into the cushions of the chase, Richard allowed
himself to relax. His obsession over the girl’s safety had kept
him going, had kept him sane almost to the extent of all else.
With his eyes closed, he pictured a scene where they were all
together, picnicking on the grounds, teaching her to read
perhaps. Lord, he would need to get her a tutor. Richard was
lulled into an uneasy sleep. When he opened his eyes, the
chase was slowing outside his London home. The Mayfair
house was a handsome one, with a fine white façade, neat rail
ings, and large windows, which would have seemed inviting. It
had been closed for numerous months, with only two elderly
servants to keep an eye on things, so now the place looked
almost gloomy.
Stepping down from the chase, Richard reviewed the
London street. He had arrived in the late afternoon, almost
evening. Were anyone beyond the servants working, he might
68
have been noticed, but he hoped he could slip unnoticed into

his home and await Mr. Clifton.
“My lord.” It was the reedy voice of Mr. Wilson, the
family butler. Unbidden, a smile formed on Richard’s face. It
was a sweet, familiar reminder of the past.
“Good to see you, Wilson.” Striding up the steps, Richard
made it inside the hallway and resisted the urge to question
Wilson. The old man needed to proceed back inside.
“There is…” Wilson’s voice trailed o , and he gestured
over towards the main parlour, “a gentleman waiting for you.”
Frowning, Richard moved forward. Woolwich would not
be depraved enough to have had him followed. Swinging the
parlour door open, Richard was surprised to see Verne sitting
by the empty grate, a book of poetry resting on his knee and
a reflective expression on his face.
“His Lordship will not be staying,” Richard snapped. If
Verne thought Richard could be chased out of London, then
he had another thing coming.
“I hate to contradict you,” Verne said. “But I do think you
will wish to hear what I have to say. It concerns your Mr.
Clifton. And the child.”
“Please see that my bags are sent up.” Richard closed the
door and turned back to his guest. He had never been close
to Verne per se. There was something almost too relaxed
about the man; he gave the impression that he was easing one
into a stupor before striking. But his reputation for intelli
gence, and his ability in the ring, proceeded him. Making his
way forward, Richard chose the chair farthest from Verne
and sank into it, before waving his hand. “You may proceed.”
Drawing out a small snu box, Verne took a sni ,
stretched, and then began in a light manner. “I hope my repu
tation proceeds me.”
“To what do you refer?”
This caused Verne to smile. He gave an almost Gallic
69
shrug. “In that case, I shall simply say that I am said to be a

good judge of character.”
“If you say so.”
Verne did not immediately voice a reply to the comment,
but he did glance away from Richard. “I have never been one
who has come under the sway of the stunning Lady Annabelle
Bradley, as was. Our dear Duchess of Woolwich, as is.”
“While the rest of us followed at her heels, you mean?”
“Quite.” Verne smiled. He had an unnerving way of
forming a grin which did not reach his eyes. “This luck, shall
we say, meant that I never bought Woolwich’s accusation
against you.”
Richard could recall the dark day still and did remember
Verne calling out, reminding Woolwich… well, he had
stopped the duke from killing him.
“Not enough to do anything about it,” Richard bit out.
The resentment he felt, the rejection and bitterness, had
consumed him; how easily they had gone along with Wool
wich’s say. “Was it because he’s a duke? You didn’t want to
o end someone so powerful?”
For the first time, a flash of emotion was it anger or
something else passed over Verne’s dark features. But then
it vanished, smoothed away, and he resumed his easy, calm
look.
“Don’t you know that guilt can work in unusual ways?”
Verne asked. “It has worked its wiles on me.” When Richard
made no reply, Verne continued, “I noticed that you had your
own reasons for keeping quiet too.”
The night I spent with Annabe e was a mistake. She had already
suffered enough. What was I supposed to say that would ever remedy
it? Stu ng such delicate thoughts away, Richard sti ened his
resolve. Just because he had been chased out of society, didn’t
mean he couldn’t rescue his child.
“I prefer to work on evidence. And my knowledge of
70
people’s characters. They usually give me enough disap

pointing information to reveal themselves,” Verne continued.
“It is the most e ective way of operating.”
“What evidence did you find?” Richard asked. He could
see the way Verne was going, and this could take all night.
The man was impressed with himself.
“If I share this with you, I want your word on two things.
The first, that there will be no reactionary gestures against
the duke or the duchess. Two ”
“If I wanted to do that, I would have done so already.”
“Two,” Verne carried on as though he had not been inter
rupted, “I want you to release the services of the numerous
Bow Street runners you had hired over the years. Their
services could be put to better use than searching through
foundling hospitals. It is at the request of the British
government.”
“Why do you care about that?” Richard had made his way
over to the nearest bookshelf and started through a leather
bound book. He wasn’t about to give up the good men he had
hired unless Verne was going to give him something better in
return. “The note I received mentioned that the child was a
girl. That…” For some reason, Richard could not quite form
the words. “There was drawing of her.”
“I did that. It’s not an exact likeness. I cannot say I am a
gifted artist.”
Richard was across the room in a flash, pulling Verne out
of the armchair and to his feet, his hands tightening around
the other man’s neckcloth. “You know where she is. Give her
to me.”
“I don’t,” Verne said with maddening calm, “have her with
me. But I saw her, and I am prepared to tell you all that I
know, provided you agree to my stipulations.”
“Yes, yes,” Richard snapped, releasing his hold on Verne.
He was in a vile mood; the idea that the child could be close
71
by was eating him up. He could still recall Woolwich’s taunt

about brothels. Some places specialised in children. He shud
dered at the idea. “Get on with it.”
“I saw the girl. She is the tiny twin of Annabelle, unmis
takably her daughter, in a small rural village in Sussex.”
“Her wellbeing?” It was not at all what Richard would
have imagined. His fears were confounded, and he found
himself listening in confusion.
“From what I could see, the child seemed well. Happy
too.”
“What else?”
“I watched the pair of them, the child and who I assumed
was…” Here, Verne paused. “Well, the child was accompanied
by a very striking woman who was looking after her. I believe
her to be Woolwich’s mistress.”
Here we go, Richard thought. He is punishing me by raising my
daughter with his jade. “You have their names?”
“Indeed. I heard the woman call the child Harriet. I made
a few discreet inquiries around the village and discovered she
is a foundling known as Harriet Milton. A foundling who lives
with the Pendletons.”
It all sounded far too respectable. So unlike everything
that Woolwich had threatened.
Glancing up, Richard met Verne’s eyes. “If you are
lying ”
“Then feel free to returning to using the runners and
resume paying Mr. Clifton his huge fees.”
“The name of the village?”
“Alfriston. Just five miles away from Lynde’s family
estate.”
The idea that his old friend might have known Harriet’s
whereabouts wriggled its way around his brain, painful and
gnawing. But then Richard squished that emotion back
72
down; what good would it do him to dwell on that? He now

had the best opportunity he’d had in years.
Her name, her location… Sussex, just a matter of a day’s
travel away.
“Richard?” It was Verne who called him back to himself.
Not bothering to turn around, Richard paused; he had
been bent over his desk scribbling these scant details down.
“I suppose Lynde knows already.”
“I thought it best and only fair for me to tell you first. But
I will make a call on him tomorrow or the following day.”
“Give me the whole of tomorrow. You owe me that.” He
locked eyes with Verne. “What did she do that convinced you?”
This earned him an amused look from Verne. “I thought
the rest of us could burn in hell?”
With a careless shrug, Richard drummed his fingers on
the wooden surface. It had been years, so why did they still
have the power to hurt him? It was the lie; they were liars,
holding him captive in such a way.
“She asked after you. Annabelle.” Verne spoke into the
silence. “It was a small question directed to me, just a passing
remark, but when pressed, well, she confirmed my doubts.”
“How good of you.” A flare of bitterness had returned to
his tone that Richard could not control.
The expression on Verne’s face was neutral, that of a
gentleman. “This means you won’t have contact with Wool
wich or Her Grace? No matter who Harriet has been raised
with. I don’t suppose either of them will wish to, Her Grace
is in a delicate condition, and I thought ”
There was a break in Verne’s speech, and Richard could
imagine the rest. Verne believed that Woolwich, distracted
with Annabelle’s new pregnancy, would let the previous child
go. How innocent Verne was in the true maliciousness that
Woolwich had left Richard in.
73
Swallowing down any surprise at the news of Woolwich’s

impending fatherhood, Richard said, “Tell Lynde whatever
you like when you run o to tattle to him. And I don’t give a
damn about the others. It’s all for Harriet.” He did not look
back to Verne and waited for the man to leave the room, so
when he repeated it to himself it was more of a benediction.
“I don’t give a damn about anyone else.”
Preorder now: The Marquess’s Adventurous Miss.
74
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Ava Bond has been a fan of regency romances since

discovering Georgette Heyer on her grandma’s bookshelf
especially Faro’s Daughter, Regency Buck and Devil’s Cub.
She studied Literature at university and has been writing
since her early twenties. Ava lives in Scotland with her
husband and small cat, Gwendolen.
www.avabond.co.uk
A L S O B Y AV A B O N D
THE OXFORD SET SERIES
The Debutante’s Duke prequel

The Marquess’s Adventurous Miss
The Lord’s Scandalous Mistress
The Spy’s Elusive Wife forthcoming
The Rogue’s Brazen Lady forthcoming
The Viscount’s Reluctant Bride forthcoming
The Duke’s Rebellious Love forthcoming

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THE DEBUTANTE’S DUKE

An Oxford Set Prequel

Copyright © 2022 by Ava Bond

Cover Art by: Forever After Romance Designs

The moral rights of the authors have been asserted.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or

It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any

This novel contains scenes of a sexual nature.

wild horse races down to Brighton. Bets placed on boat rides

Lady Bradley a conspiratorial grin. “Well, enough to tempt a

T HE GLAMOUROUS B ELGRAVIA TOWNHOUSE , WHERE L ADY

white debutante gown, but the paleness was not ﬂattering; a

Turning at the sound of the girls’ arrival, the man quirked an

frowning, but his annoyance was aimed at the short girl.

Before Annabelle or even His Lordship could reply, Viola

“You think so, my lord?” She tried to back away. She

Heatherbroke. He was not as impressive to Annabelle’s eyes

and a hush descended on the ballroom, allowing a great many

the music having come to an end. He would have loved to

distinct, as well as a gleam in her blue eyes that spoke of great

ering young men watching the unattached Lady Annabelle.

pot, they swarmed. She accepted Lord Richard’s arm and

and laughed amongst themselves; they seemed inclined to

himself? One who enjoyed society and seemed keen to be

“I must say that was more than I imagined possible,”

and by the time they reached their Putney home, Annabelle

brothers, I will deny to the heavens I ever shared such infor

O VER THE NEXT WEEK , A GREAT MANY DECISIONS WERE

bling down her silly love notes, her daydreams of Lord

alone. He never did what her other more obvious suitors

T HE FOLLOWING DAY , A NNABELLE ’ S MOTHER HAD DECIDED

coloured coats, as Annabelle tried her best to keep her eyes

to Annabelle, and they heated when he realised she was

had vanished and because of the outcrop of trees, the pair of

sounded behind them as Sally drew nearer, and Woolwich

been in her parents’ parlour and noticed her scrawl in the

felt as much of an outsider as he did solidiﬁed, and Jasper

“No, no, calm yourself.” George pulled the glass tumbler

D OWAGER K ATHERINE WAS LESS THAN IMPRESSED WITH

grateful for his mother’s snobbish practicality. After all, it was

angled towards his. He could pick out the intricate pattern of

bottom lip, he couldn’t bear the thought of ceasing their kiss.

per se, there was nevertheless something rather wonderful in

he moved back to her, she caught sight of him. His manly

retiring room, leaving Annabelle alone with her confused

T HE NEXT MORNING , L ADY B RADLEY SENT UP AN

middle of the parlour was a man whose elegant frame

“My dear?” The masculine voice had a questioning tone

T O BE CONTINUED IN T HE M ARQUESS ’ S A DVENTUROUS

I really hope you enjoyed reading The Debutante’s Duke and

I love to hear from readers and can be reached on my social

And if you would like to write a review that would make me

Read on for a sneak peek at Book One in the Oxford Set

Brayton Manor, Cumbria, July 1810

Baronet Verne, as well as Richard himself. Of course, they

with everything included,” Mr. Forshaw said. “I thought that

Woolwich strode forward, his face livid, looking fully

In his mind’s eye, Richard saw himself go to the cabinet

his plan. Humiliate me, cut me oﬀ om the Set. It is what I deserve,

Richard had no reply. Woolwich was right, the Set members

voices raised, and headed towards the stables. They had

London, April 1814

Tightening his fists, Richard wished the carriage would

have been noticed, but he hoped he could slip unnoticed into