“Because I was determined to keep up appearances, of course. And because your grandfather would hear of nothing else.” Catherine gave an elegant sniff. “In my opinion, Jervis has behaved rather foolishly, fawning over you as if you were his prodigal daughter. But when Elizabeth died, he formed the absurd notion that he had been too harsh-”

“Because he had been too harsh,” Raven interrupted. Her grandfather, Jervis Frome, Viscount Luttrell, had experienced a change of heart upon learning of his daughter’s death, regretting never having reconciled. When his health began to fail, he’d invited Raven to England, desirous of meeting his only grandchild and of making amends for his past intransigence and his estrangement from Elizabeth all these years.

Apparently Aunt Catherine had said her piece, though, for she turned away, every inch the imperious dame. “Enough dallying. You had best make haste. It won’t do to keep the illustrious duke waiting at the altar.”

“No,” Raven forced herself to say coolly. “As one of the chief arbiters of society, Aunt, you should know.”

When she was alone, Raven glanced down blindly at the pearls, still feeling the sting of her aunt’s scorn. Being scorned was a familiar experience to her.

Elizabeth had infuriated her haughty family, imperiling their social standing by developing a passionate love for a married American shipping magnate and conceiving a child out of wedlock. Disaster had been averted only by marrying her off to an impoverished neighbor’s younger son-one who held her in complete contempt, and her bastard daughter as well.

Raven cringed inwardly as she remembered the man who was presumed by the world to be her father, Ian Kendrick. For twenty years now, she had been Miss Kendrick in public, but privately he had never accepted her as his child. Never let her forget that she was in truth a bastard.

He had deliberately made her feel tarnished, unworthy…somehow to blame for both her mother’s weakness and his own misery. The terms of his marriage contract were clear: a small plantation and monthly income in exchange for remaining in the Caribbean with Elizabeth. Yet until the moment of his death in a riding accident eight years ago, Ian Kendrick had railed at his fate-being exiled to a backwater isle with barely the means to support his preferred standard of living-while his wife languished away, torn by unhappiness over her long-lost love. As for their daughter…

Raven steeled her shoulders, willing herself to calm. She’d carried the secret shame of her conception since she was old enough to comprehend the word “bastard.” And though her fear of discovery might be irrational, it was the chief reason she had favored Halford above all the other candidates who’d courted her so assiduously. And why she had carefully avoided the unsuitable ones. If she married high enough, if she aligned herself with a nobleman of power and consequence, then she would be shielded from her dubious past.

Admittedly she was guilty of deception for concealing her origins from her intended husband. But Halford would be getting exactly the sort of bride he required, Raven thought defiantly. She was virginal, possessed an acceptably winsome appearance, was of good blood and family connections, and had adequate countenance to fill the role of duchess. And she would willingly give Halford the heirs he wanted.

She would be getting precisely what she wanted as well: acceptance at last by the polite world that had never considered her good enough. And a husband who was safe. She would never make her mother’s mistake. Better a cold, loveless contract than a blazing passion that could rip her heart to shreds.

She was in no danger of falling in love with her duke, although she had hopes for eventually developing both affection and a satisfying friendship with him. Sometimes she even managed to delve beneath Halford’s stiff, straitlaced reserve and make him smile.

But theirs would be a marriage of convenience, nothing more. They would live together in civilized harmony, both understanding exactly what was required of them.

In any case, her imaginary lover would keep her satisfied. And if she had to resort to fantasy in order to feel passion, to experience desire and warmth and fulfillment…well then, she would need such an escape if she hoped to endure a lifetime of her illustrious husband’s rigid British formality.

Truly, though, her fantasizing wouldn’t present any real harm to her husband or to her vows. She would be entirely faithful to Halford…except in her mind.

Raven took a deep breath, renewing her resolve as she turned to ring for her maid. She had made her own bed, as the saying went. Her betrothed would soon be awaiting her at the church-St. George’s, Hanover Square-along with several hundred of their friends and acquaintances, the very cream of the ton. And she intended to look her best for her special day.


Two hours later she descended the stairway to the entrance hall where, with the aid of a cane, her grandfather stood alongside his sister Catherine. The elderly viscount stayed here on the rare occasions when he came to town, rather than open his own cavernous mansion.

Lord Luttrell was tall and silver-haired like his sister, though not as handsome. He’d been ill for a long while, suffering from a weak heart.

Tears brimmed in his eyes, Raven saw when she reached him.

“So you approve, do you, Grandfather?” she asked, offering him a smile. She couldn’t totally forgive him for repudiating her mother so many years ago, but they had come to terms of sorts during the nearly eight months since her arrival in England.

He took her hand in his own shaky one. “Very much, child. You are exceedingly beautiful.”

Raven did think her appearance pleasing. Her empire gown was of pale lemon lustring, with an ivory net overskirt shot with gold threads. And she wore her mother’s pearls, while her raven hair was gathered high into an elegant coiffure.

Beside the viscount, her dragon of a great-aunt agreed even while sniffing in disapproval. “She is indeed beautiful, Jervis, but you will turn her head with such flattery. And Raven is not a child in the least. She turned twenty months ago.”

As usual, her grandfather ignored his sister’s waspish tone and patted Raven’s hand. “I have never been so proud of you. You will make a grand duchess.”

Raven bit back an instinctive reply. In her grandfather’s opinion-along with the much of the world’s-a woman’s worth was only measured by her husband’s position in society. Yet to his credit, Grandfather only wanted her to be well settled in life.

Despite the strain that had marked their early relationship, Lord Luttrell had welcomed her with a touching eagerness, making her feel like a cherished member of his family. And Raven had found herself immensely glad for the connection. He and Lady Dalrymple were the only blood relations she had left, other than an American half brother whom she could never publicly claim. She’d never even known her real father, the wealthy American shipping magnate who had died some years past.

And she knew the viscount truly mourned his late daughter and regretted his intractability.

“I am sorry your mother is not here to see you,” her grandfather said now in a trembling voice.

Raven felt her own throat constrict. She, too, wished her mother could be here to witness her triumphant union.

“Jervis, if you are finished wallowing in sentimentality,” Aunt Catherine interjected sharply, “we have a ceremony to attend.”

“Yes, of course,” Luttrell grunted with a quelling look at his sister.

After accepting her cloak from the Dalrymple butler, Raven allowed her grandfather to lead her slowly down the entrance steps of her aunt’s residence to where the viscount’s grand, crested carriage stood ready to transport them to the church.

To Raven’s delight, her long-term groom, Michael O’Malley, waited beside the carriage to see her off.

“ ’Tis a grand sight you are, Miss Raven,” the Irishman said in his lilting accent, beaming when she reached him. “And a proud day to be sure.”

With a brilliant smile of her own, Raven stepped aside to embrace the hulking, gray-haired fellow. “Thank you, O’Malley,” she said, her voice husky with emotion.

She kissed his grizzled cheek, ignoring her aunt’s sudden stiffening and her grandfather’s obvious frown of disapproval. For most of her childhood, O’Malley had been more father than servant to her. And he had accompanied her to England from the West Indies when she’d come to face her haughty, unknown relatives. She was immeasurably grateful to him for standing her friend.

Turning then, Raven allowed O’Malley to take her elbow so he could hand her into the elegant barouche. When she heard a sudden commotion, though, she glanced curiously up the street to see a closed carriage barreling toward them, its windows shuttered, its coachman wearing a hooded cape that made him appear phantomlike.

Strangely, the coach slowed as it passed the barouche, then rumbled to a halt while three armed, masked figures leapt out. To Raven’s shock, two of them pointed pistols directly at her, while the third brandished a cudgel.

“Ye’re to come with us,” one said in gruff voice, gesturing at her.

“Who the devil are you?” Lord Luttrell demanded.

When Raven stood frozen in bewilderment, the leader lunged at her and gripped her arm, dragging her toward the coach.

With a fierce growl, O’Malley made to intervene, but the man with the cudgel moved directly into his path, swinging his weapon viciously, preventing her groom from coming to her aid.