Lord Truesdale leaned in. “I will call on you tomorrow afternoon. I have an idea as to what should be done.”

Though she dreaded his idea of “what should be done”, she supposed any assistance in this matter would be helpful. “You will find me at home, My Lord,” she insisted, more than ready not only to face Camden, but to reclaim him and in turn become the wife he deserved.

A firm hand grabbed Gwendolyn’s upper arm from behind and yanked her off to the side. She stumbled, glaring at her brother. “Edwin, what are you—”

Her brother stalked past her and moved towards Camden’s uncle. “Tell that nephew of yours I have a pair of fists waiting for him at Jackson’s,” he snapped, not at all bothering to lower his voice. “What breed of man abandons his own wife?”

Gwendolyn’s eyes widened as she smacked her brother’s shoulder with her fan. “Whatever are you doing?” she hissed, glancing around at those who were beginning to stare. “He didn’t abandon me. It was a mutual separation.”

Edwin spun towards her and glared down at her with blazing green eyes. “I am merely overseeing your honour. Someone has to. Now come along. There are a few marvellous women I’ve yet to meet.” He grabbed her arm and tugged her rudely in the opposite direction.

She rolled her eyes and scrambled to keep up with him. “Marvellous? So far, every woman you’ve insisted on meeting has been about as entertaining as a brick.”

He glanced back at her and continued to lead her through the crowds. “I’ll have you know that bricks make good, solid foundations upon which to build.”

It was pointless trying to stick a fork into his brain about anything. She sighed and allowed him to drag her left and right, and then right and left, for the rest of the evening for the sake of his happiness. Of course, she made a point to avoid Westbrook at every turn. After all, she didn’t want to be rude and spray the man’s blood everywhere when she attacked him.


Two days later, night, as the clock strikes ten


The Truesdale house

Camden Richard Dearborn, the fourth Marquis of Redford, had never once in the course of his thirty years overindulged in enough cognac, port or brandy to render himself senseless and useless.

Until tonight.

Of course, drowning the last of his rational mind was the only way he could gull himself into facing his own wife — who already appeared to be an hour late. Damn her. As always, time meant nothing to her. And apparently, neither did he.

Camden shifted against the sofa cushion and tried to focus on tightening his bare fingers against the glass of port. It was a miracle he hadn’t spilled the damn thing. Or dropped it.

He glanced across the length of the candlelit parlour towards the entryway and staggered on to heavy-booted feet. He brought more port to his lips and though he swallowed, he could no longer taste the tangy sweetness coating his tongue.

The very thought of his own Gwendolyn touching another man made him want to smash his glass against his own head. Never did he think she of all people would do such a thing.

It was obvious he stood apart in his way of thinking that all a man truly needed out of life was a faithful wife, four children and a dog. For what every man in London really wanted these days was multiple lovers and other people’s wives. Including his own! And whatever children were born were simply the results of overspent passions, not love and family planning. As for the dog? The poor dog was left to wander the streets alone. Completely forgotten. Man’s best friend no more.

With each droning minute that passed in silence, Camden couldn’t help but feel increasingly pathetic about waiting around for a wife who apparently was not coming. That alone bespoke of guilt. She couldn’t even face him.

Regardless, he was not leaving until she arrived. He wanted a damn explanation as to how her silk stocking had gotten into Westbrook’s hands. And if that explanation wasn’t good enough, by God, he was getting a divorce and moving to France.

“Uncle!” Camden leaned forwards impatiently, swaying for a brief moment against his own movement, and glanced towards the entryway his uncle had disappeared into. “Is my wife coming or not? Where the bloody hell is she?”

After a few moments of silence, there was an echoing of boots. His uncle reappeared with … what appeared to be two black strips of cloth in his hands. The old man strode towards him. “She just arrived. Apparently, she couldn’t decide on which gown to wear.”

That most certainly was Gwendolyn. He was of the mind that a woman should only be allowed one gown. That way, there’d be no more indecision.

His uncle paused before him.

Camden watched as his uncle casually draped one of the black velvet sashes over the chair, then snapped the other strip of black velvet taut between his hands. “Lean forwards.”

Camden pulled his shaven chin against his silk cravat. “Whatever do you mean ‘lean forwards’? What the blazes do you intend to do with that? Put that away!”

His uncle’s bushy brows went up as he extended the black velvet blindfold. “Do you or do you not wish to save your marriage?”

Camden choked. “I … My marriage? What is all this?”

“Lean forwards, damn you. I will not ask again.”

Camden huffed out a breath, knowing that when it came to his uncle, one did not ask questions. One simply hoped for the best. To accommodate the height difference between them, he leaned forwards, as told. But for some reason, the room swayed.

Camden caught hold of his uncle’s shoulder with his free hand and steadied himself as port splashed outside the glass he held in his other hand.

Lord Truesdale glared up at him. “Why would you ply yourself before her coming? The idea is to save your marriage. Not destroy the last of it.”

Regaining his balance, Camden shifted towards his uncle. “I am not in the least bit pleased with my wife and am merely trying to ensure I am sedated enough to entertain her.”

“She may just entertain you.” His uncle smirked and placed the thick, double-folded soft velvet against the bridge of Camden’s nose, covering his eyes.

Darkness flooded Camden’s vision as his uncle secured the blindfold firmly against the back of his head. The glass was suddenly yanked from his grasp and, before he realized what was happening, both of his hands were yanked hard behind his back and tightly bound together.

“What—?” Camden struggled against the ties that bound him. “What is this? Untie me!” he boomed, unable to free his wrists from the tight binding.

Shuffles and movements floated around him in the fuzzy darkness. “Have at it,” his uncle announced to someone, his booted feet disappearing out into the corridor. “I intend to go for my walk. Expect me in two hours.”

The rustling of skirts filled the room.

“Gwendolyn?” Camden demanded.

“Yes, Camden?” Her voice was soft and flirtatious. “What is it?”

He froze. It had been months since her voice had been that soft or that flirtatious. “What … You’d best untie me. Do it. Now.”

“Why would I do that? You are supposed to remain bound for the rest of the evening.”

He choked. “The devil, you say. I am demanding you untie me. Before I acquire a divorce on the grounds of this alone!”

“Oh hush, already. Where is your sense of adventure? You always take everything too seriously.” A pair of firm, small hands grabbed hold of his forearm and waist and guided him forcefully forwards in a direction that was anything but straight.

He scrambled forwards, trying to keep his body upright, though with his hands tied behind his back, it was difficult to balance. He stumbled and winced. “I should probably point out, madam, that I’ve had far too many cognacs. And port. Lots of port.”

“So I’ve noticed.” She eased their pace, and tucked her petite, curvaceous body against him, tightening her hold on his waist, to assist in his movements.

Camden swayed and awkwardly adjusted himself against her. Soft, abundant hair grazed his skin as she slowly led him forwards. He unwittingly leaned into her, willing himself to submit to whatever was happening to him.

The rustling of her skirts, which brushed up against his trouser-clad legs, was all that met his ears. Seeing that they weren’t climbing any stairs — fortunately for him — his guess was that she was opting for the closest private room there was.

His uncle’s library.

She brought them to a halt and slid out of his reach. There was a creaking of double doors opening.

A warm, soft hand grabbed his and carefully guided him through. Her other hand took hold of his arm, encouraging him to remain where he was, before releasing him again.

The doors thudded closed, and a click told him that they were not only locked, but he was now officially at her mercy.

And then … there was nothing. Absolutely nothing.

Camden stood in blinding darkness and silence, sensing Gwendolyn was still nearby. “What are you doing?” he demanded. “Do you find yourself amusing?”

Her skirts rustled against the movement of her legs. And without a word, gentle, yet firm, warm hands smoothed their way under his coat and against his waist in a seductive manner that made him suck in a breath.

She placed her warmth close against the front of his body, forcing him to feel every soft inch of her. Her skirts pushed against the length of his trousers. The stiffness of her corset and her full breasts beneath pressed against the front of his buttoned waistcoat.

She continued to tenderly hold him and did not attempt anything more. His pulse drummed. It was as equally wrenching as it was awkward, knowing how long it had been since she had so willingly touched him.