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  “Who do you think has been auditing the books?” she snapped without thinking.

  The solicitor’s stricken face swung in her direction. “It wasn’t a ghost?”

  “I daresay a ghost would do better at accounting than a woman,” Lord Banfield put in disapprovingly. “I won’t stand for any such meddling, young lady. Now that I’m the earl, you are forbidden from even touching any of the journals. I take care of my business myself. Starting with you. If you wish to make your own decisions, then turn your pretty head to selecting a husband.”

  “And…if I don’t?” she stammered with dread in her stomach.

  “If you aren’t wed before the start of the Season and cannot bring anyone up to scratch before your portion runs dry, then you leave me no choice but to do the selecting myself. If you haven’t chosen a husband by the end of January—I’ll choose for you.”

  She tried to hide her shiver as a chill went down her spine.

  He nodded at the solicitor. “Now if you’ll excuse us, we’ve invitations to address, and then I must collect my wife and daughters. Dozens of guests will be arriving for the reading of the will. Lady Banfield will wish to be settled first.”

  Rebecca stepped back as the two men swept past her. When they disappeared down the corridor, she sagged back against the wall and tried to calm her heart.

  January. She had until the end of January to find a sweet, not-too-demanding suitor delighted to have her dowry—and happy to leave her alone. Perhaps Bocka Morrow was a good pond to fish in after all. She could stay in the country, far from London. And her husband would be gone all day, doing whatever it was country husbands did.

  Perhaps such a marriage would be bearable after all. Provided she could arrange one within three short months.

  Her fists clenched. She could not allow her uncle to choose for her. He’d pick some dreadful London fop, or an ancient roué, or a self-important, fickle rakehell like that arrogant Lord North Barrows…who undoubtedly was on the guest list. Not just because he was related to the prior earl’s sister. But because everyone who knew Lord North Barrows, loved him.

  Once, Rebecca had too.

  She leaned the back of her head against the wall in despair. What hope had she of even attracting a country gentleman?

  In fact, Rebecca had hurt so badly that she had been relieved at first when her parents didn’t have the funds to give her a second Season. But they loved her too much to give up. They’d trekked all the way to Southern Cornwall in the hopes that her mother’s distant uncle, the Earl of Banfield, might be impressed enough with the pretty manners and pleasing face of a young Rebecca that he might be coaxed into sponsoring her second Season.

  It worked. Banfield had agreed to fund her second Season. Rebecca’s parents had been ecstatic.

  They’d begged her to join them on a pleasure boat to celebrate their financial success in Cornwall before returning to London.

  Rebecca had refused to join them. She’d discovered the castle’s soaring library, and meant to inhale as many books as possible before returning to their barren rented cottage on the outskirts of London.

  She had never seen her parents again. Only bits of wreckage ever drifted ashore.

  When her year of mourning had concluded, Lord Banfield no longer recalled his promise to sponsor another Season. He had forgotten she was under his roof altogether.

  And the new earl would be rid of her in three short months, come hell or high water.

  Rebecca rubbed her temples in frustration. What was she to do? She had no fashionable clothing. No knowledge of whatever was popular at the moment. No skill at flirtation—or even conversation. She had spent the past five years haunting the library, the billiards room, and the hedge maze behind the castle, should the sun chance to peek through the omnipresent clouds.

  How would she possibly attract a promising bachelor’s attention, much less his hand in marriage?

  Especially with Lord North Barrows under the same roof, right there to see her fail.

  Saints save her. She cringed at the imminent humiliation. He was the only person likely to remember her name—and thus the only one who might be able to help a reclusive spinster without the slightest talent at coquetry obtain a marriage proposal before time ran out.

  That settled it. She lifted her chin in determination.

  Who better than a rakish viscount to teach her how to snare a true gentleman capable of appreciating her charms?

  Chapter 2

  October 18, 1811

  Mayfair, London, England

  Daniel Goodenham, Lord North Barrows, could scarcely hear himself think over the shrill of laughter and raucous shouts from his friends as they careened into each other in a drunken quadrille in his front parlor.

  In honor of his birthday, he’d had every carpet and every stick of furniture swept out of sight, and a small—yet astonishingly loud—six man orchestra brought in. There was nowhere to sit and no one who desired to. There was too much good wine, too much music, too much food, too much mirth. The townhouse overflowed with friends and revelry.

  It was, without a doubt, the most successful birthday celebration he’d had in the nine years since he had inherited the viscountcy. His townhouse was so full of guests, he didn’t even recognize half of them.

  They all wished him well, of course. At every break in the music someone would raise their glass in a toast to Daniel, and the subsequent moments would be a whirl of champagne and claps on the back and tipsy kisses behind the cover of painted fan.

  He might be celebrating his birthday, but the unmarried young ladies in the crush were celebrating being within arm’s reach of an eligible, twenty-six-year-old bachelor. He wished he enjoyed it.

  To the debutantes, he was in possession of a title and in want of a wife—a circumstance from which they sought to save him. Daily. Hourly. He could barely catch his breath between encounters with this young lady or that, each of them hoping that her stolen kiss would be the one to bring the unattainable viscount to his knees.

  It had been fun, at first. Perhaps not nine years ago, when he’d inherited the title at seventeen years of age and hadn’t had the least idea what to do with it, much less what to do with a woman.

  He’d learned quickly, though. On all points. He’d had to, sink or swim.

  And now here he was. No longer a gangly youth terrified of living up to the North Barrows name. Now he was the North Barrows name. The viscountcy was a tight ship, Daniel’s arguments in the House of Lords concise and persuasive, and invitations to his fêtes eagerly anticipated.

  Yet at some point, the fawning attention had ceased being flattering and had simply become part of the job. He managed his estate. Balanced ledgers. Looked after his tenants. Voted Whig. Fended off the flirtations of sixteen-year-old doe-eyed beauties hoping to crown their come-outs with banns and a marriage.

  He wondered if he could slip out the back door into his empty garden without anyone noticing him missing.

  “My lord.” One of Daniel’s footmen stood unobtrusively behind a cluster of young ladies vying to entice him into a waltz. “A letter has come for you.”

  “At last!” Daniel exclaimed, as if he had the slightest idea from whence the missive had come. He snatched the folded parchment from his footman’s outstretched palm. “Thank you, John. My dears, you’ll have to pardon my absence for the smallest of moments while I attend to this very urgent matter. There will be more quadrilles, never fear.”

  Without awaiting a reply, he held the letter before him like a torch lighting his way, allowing its rain-smeared script and indistinct seal to part seas of well-wishers as he made his way out of the festivities and up to his office.

  He closed the door, although no one would follow him. Wine and music were on the ground floor. Daniel lit a few extra candles, then angled the letter beneath their light.

  Ah. Now he recognized the seal. The Earl of Banfield must have written, although Daniel couldn’t imagine what on earth for. He hadn’t set
foot on the foreboding grounds of the earl’s macabre castle in nine delightful, ghost-free years. He didn’t intend to ruin his streak.

  With a small blade, Daniel sliced open the seal and unfolded the letter. Stark, bold handwriting covered the parchment.

  Dear Lord North Barrows,

  In regards to the matter of the unentailed estate of the late Jonathan Hambly, 10th Earl of Banfield, be advised that your attendance is urgently required at the reading of his lordship’s Last Will & Testament, to take place on the first of November of this year at Castle Keyvnor in Bocka Morrow, Cornwall.

  Regards,

  Mr. Timothy Hunt, Esq.

  Daniel’s first thought should have been for the plight of the late earl. His second thought, perhaps, should have concerned his apparent unexpected inheritance.

  But his only thought was Miss Rebecca Bond.

  He regretted nothing more deeply than the lost friendship he’d shared long ago with the one woman who treated him like a man, not a title.

  Rebecca was the epicenter of Daniel’s best and worst moments at Castle Keyvnor.

  The best memory happened to also be Daniel’s all-time favorite birthday. His fifteenth, to be exact. Rebecca had been twelve. Old enough not to require a nanny, yet young enough for her parents to think nothing untoward of their daughter spending the afternoon in the company of a young lad on his birthday.

  They’d snuck into the castle kitchen, where Rebecca had baked him raisin biscuits—the only thing she knew how to make. She had flecks of flour in her glossy black ringlets and sugar on the bridge of her nose. She smelled like cinnamon. He’d stolen a kiss that tasted like every present he’d ever wanted. Raisin biscuits were his favorite to this very day.

  Rebecca likely didn’t think of him as fondly.

  A few years later, when he was seventeen and she fourteen, they once again crossed paths at Castle Keyvnor. There had been a crush of some kind. Daniel no longer recalled the occasion. All he remembered were those few moments with Rebecca.

  She had been radiant that night. Her best gown, her black curls piled high, her lips plump and deliciously red against the smooth porcelain of her skin. But it was still two years before her come-out, and her parents had forbidden her from joining the party.

  Daniel hadn’t even wanted to attend until he’d caught sight of Rebecca. If she couldn’t enter the ballroom, what lure held it to him? The only thing he wanted was gazing up at him from beneath dark lashes, a flush of pink dusting the apples of her cheeks as she asked him to dance with her right there, since she was forbidden to go inside.

  He wanted to. He should have done. Daniel still hadn’t forgiven himself for that night. Or forgiven his grandmother, Lady North Barrows, for her role in it.

  Then shortly after, he’d inherited the viscountcy and no longer had time for anything or anyone. He and Rebecca never spoke again, just as he no longer spoke to his grandmother.

  But Rebecca had always been the loss that stung.

  He straightened his shoulders. Now that his life and the viscountcy were under control, he was in a different position. He was a different person than he’d been back then.

  This was his chance to prove it to Rebecca. His excuse to finally extend the olive branch he couldn’t offer her years before.

  He reread the summons. Castle Keyvnor was three hundred miles away. The first of November was less than a fortnight hence. Most of the other guests wouldn’t arrive until closer to the reading. If Daniel left immediately, changing horses as often as necessary to take advantage of every scrap of daylight, he could make the trip in three days.

  Better yet, he could start now. There was no moon to speak of, so he wouldn’t be able to leave London until dawn. In fact, the sun rose at six o’clock in the morning, and as it was already half three, that left him two and a half hours to pack his trunk, rouse his valet, and set off toward the first posting-house.

  He shoved the letter into his waistcoat pocket and raced to his dressing room. It was considered bad form to abandon one’s own birthday party, but if Daniel wished for a chance to speak to Rebecca in private, he had to arrive before the others.

  There were no other circumstances in which the two could be alone without raising eyebrows. No better opportunity to even be under the same roof. Once the other guests arrived, his chance to make amends would vanish.

  He’d already squandered too many opportunities. He couldn’t let it happen again.

  Without wasting a single moment, he collected his trunks and his valet and set out for Cornwall. They took hurried meals at humble inns along the way, and stopped at posting-houses only long enough to change horses or grab a few hours’ sleep.

  As the wheels of his carriage brought him inexorably closer to Castle Keyvnor, all Daniel could think about was Rebecca.

  When he’d first met the pretty gray-eyed girl all those years ago, he’d had nothing to offer her. Daniel’s father had been Lady North Barrows’s prodigal second son, whom she had vociferously declared unfit for the title. When the viscountcy to pass to seventeen-year-old Daniel, his grandmother had been even less pleased.

  As angry as he’d been with his grandmother for her constant belittling, he couldn’t help but seek her approval…or at least the success to make her eat her words.

  He’d thrown himself into the title, the estate, the House of Lords, and spent the next few years proving Lady North Barrows wrong. At the expense of all else. He’d been so focused on managing and improving every aspect of the viscountcy, he hadn’t had a moment to spare for so much as a single dance during Rebecca’s first Season.

  Next year, he’d told himself. Next year he’d have everything under control and be able to relax and enjoy life. Next year he’d sweep her off her feet at a midnight waltz, if some blackguard didn’t beat him to it.

  But next year never came. Rebecca never stepped foot in London again.

  He didn’t need her, he’d insisted to his empty heart. They already hadn’t spoken since their falling-out at Castle Keyvnor a few years prior. They simply weren’t meant to be.

  Once he gained his confidence and entered the social whirl, he’d been immediately surrounded by beautiful women. A viscount in want of an heir could have his pick of accomplished young ladies eager to be his bride. Grandmother had even earmarked one or two “healthy chits” whose bloodlines made them especially suited for the role of future viscountess.

  None had captured Daniel’s heart. Nor were the young ladies attempting to. They didn’t want him. They wanted the title, the money, the prestige. Marital unions were business transactions. And they perfectly expected him to be just as dispassionate in choosing the prettiest, wealthiest, most well-connected among them to be his wife. That was how the game was played.

  Someday, he knew he would have to make such a selection. But not today. Right now, Daniel wasn’t looking for a wife. He was looking for a friend. One he should never have lost.

  A fortnight away from London might be precisely what he needed.

  He couldn’t bear to be gone for long—this city lived in his blood; in his very breath. But he could not pass up this chance to right a wrong. He had hurt the one person who saw him as himself. Who had known him and liked him long before he’d inherited a title.

  Back when they were just a gangly lad and a pretty girl standing outside a ballroom.

  Daniel’s shoulders hunched in shame. The only thing fourteen-year-old Rebecca had ever asked of him was a dance. Because his disapproving grandmother had been in earshot, he had scorned her shy advance with far more vehemence than was merited.

  And when his grandmother stepped forward to coldly inform Rebecca that a penniless urchin like herself was overreaching her position by daring to speak to the heir presumptive of a viscountcy, a mortified Daniel had said nothing in Rebecca’s defense. At seventeen years of age, he had been desperate for his grandmother’s approval. For anyone’s.

  Now he was old enough not to care. He hadn’t spoken to Lady North Ba
rrows since the funeral where she had berated Daniel’s unworthiness to ascend to the title in front of the entire family. The caricaturists had used his humiliation as fodder for weeks.

  But they weren’t laughing now. He was exactly what—and who—he was supposed to be. An exemplary viscount. An eligible bachelor. A carefree rake-about-town.

  Most nights, he missed just being Daniel.

  Chapter 3

  Just as the last hint of sunlight was sinking past the horizon, the rocky, wind-lashed terrain of Cornwall came into view. Daniel straightened his spine. The chill was already seeping through the cracks in the buffeted carriage.

  The driver gulped. “Nightfall has arrived, milord. Shall I find a posting-house?”

  Daniel shook his head, his skin tingling from the close proximity to Castle Keyvnor. “No. Let’s keep going. We’re almost there.”

  Even as he said the words, the monstrous castle rose from the darkness, its looming towers an even deeper black than the interminable night enshrouding them.

  A familiar chill danced across his clammy skin as the carriage rattled over the ancient bridge across the long-dry moat, and on through a massive iron gate. The castle looked darker than he remembered. Larger. More menacing.

  Rebecca was somewhere inside those walls. He just had to find her.

  He dashed from the carriage and up the slick stone steps of Castle Keyvnor as torrents of rain spilled from the black, thunderous sky.

  The horrendous downpour was not only a fitting welcome back to the castle grounds, but the only weather he ever recalled Castle Keyvnor having. If the sun happened to shine over the sparse seaside village of Bocka Morrow, the castle was still be buffeted by icy winds and cloaked in shadow.

  He ignored the sheet of rain cascading from the brim of his beaver hat and reached for the brass doorknocker dangling from the maw of a stone lion.

  The door swung open before his fingers even touched the knocker.