But Marissa was having none of it. “Tell us who it is!” she declared impatiently.
Olivia knew now was not the time to be coy, and yet the name on her lips felt dangerous and risqué, and her cheeks grew hot again as she spoke: “I want to marry Lord Dominic Lacey.”
“Wicked Nic?” Tina squeaked loudly, while the reactions of the others ranged from amazement to dismay. Of course, they had all heard of Wicked Nic Lacey.
“He is very handsome,” unshockable Marissa said thoughtfully, “but then most rakes are. It goes with the nature of the beast.” She tilted her head to one side as she observed Olivia. “But I think there must be more to your wanting to marry him than his face.”
“Yes. There is.” Her cool demeanor was disturbed, as if a ripple passed over her surface, giving a glimpse of the passion within. The real Olivia Monteith. She smiled, her eyes gleaming with humor and the ability to find something amusing in even dire circumstances, a trait she took great care to keep hidden from all but her closest friends. English society did not appreciate levity in its young ladies.
“When I was ten years old Lord Lacey promised to marry me, and since then I’ve never met another man I liked half as much.”
Appreciative laughter, and Lady Averil gave a mischievous grin. “If anyone can tame Wicked Nic, then I believe it is you, Olivia.”
“And after all, a promise is a promise,” agreed Tina, “even if you were only ten.”
Eugenie produced a bottle of champagne with a flourish. “Compliments of Miss Debenham’s!” Eagerly glasses were held out as she poured the sparkling liquid. “Let us make a toast,” she said.
“To the Husband Hunters Club!”
Their voices lifted with their glasses, while below in the ballroom the graduation went on, the guests and families all innocently unaware that their worlds were about to be turned topsy-turvy.
Chapter 1
Two weeks later, in Hampshire
Olivia held her hands tightly folded at her waist, refusing to fidget. She was not a fidgeting sort of girl, but right now she would have loved to straighten her sleeves or pat at her hair or twitch her skirts. The walk to Castle Lacey, rather than calming her, had only given her more time to worry.
What if he rejected her?
She’d known Lord Lacey all her life, and had called him a friend for most of those years, albeit a secret friend. Until three years ago they’d met now and again to chat—a habit that was formed when Olivia’s sister died—and he’d seemed to genuinely care about her. Yes, he’d thought of her as a child, and if he noticed the stars in her eyes when she looked at him, he pretended he didn’t. The very fact of the secrecy—innocent though their meetings were—made their meetings more special, and knowing that her parents would have been horrified if they knew what she was doing gave them an extra deliciously dangerous quality.
The Monteiths and the Laceys had lived in the same village for centuries, but that did not make them socially compatible. The wealthy Monteiths had risen from humble country folk to country gentry, and were keen to rise further. The Laceys were aristocrats, blue bloods, and aloof—although what they had to be so proud about Olivia had never been able to fathom. Yes, they did live in a castle, but it was large and drafty and reputedly cost them a fortune. Yes, their name was tangled up with kings and queens and the more important dates in British history, but being mentioned in history books meant they were cunning enough to be on the winning side, not that they were brave or particularly loyal.
Setting aside Wicked Nic’s reputation, and apart from the social differences, the match would be a good one. Entirely suitable. Perfect in fact. With the Monteith fortune and new blood, and the Lacey lands and old blood, the two families would combine forces.
Not, she reminded herself, that the suitability or otherwise of the alliance of their families was what had brought her to Castle Lacey this morning. Not directly, anyway. The Laceys would mean nothing to her if it wasn’t for the identity of the current heir. Rake and wastrel, the sort of man respectable mothers warned their daughters about, and respectable men secretly envied. The sort of man women sighed over and longed to tame, even knowing they’d more than likely end up brokenhearted.
Lord Dominic Lacey was known far and wide as Wicked Nic for good reason.
But the respectable Miss Olivia Monteith didn’t entirely agree. Over the years she’d seen a very different Wicked Nic, a man capable of great kindness, a man who would make a good husband, and she was determined to have and hold him, from this day forward, till death did them part.
Lord Dominic Lacey dipped his pen into the ink pot and tried to pretend his leg wasn’t hurti
ng like the devil. Usually that grinding ache meant a change in the weather, but outside his windows the sky was a cheerful blue and the birds were singing maniacally.
He paused to admire the walled garden, reaching down to try to rub some of the pain away. The broken bone had never healed properly—he hadn’t sought treatment until it was too late, and this had been the result. He supposed his mother would say he’d had his just deserts for all the chaos he’d caused; a self-inflicted punishment. He knew that in his heart he believed her to be right.
The tap on the door turned his thoughts away from a past he preferred to forget, and gratefully he looked up as it opened. Abbot, his manservant, valet, and—although neither of them would admit it or overstep the social boundaries—his friend, stood watching him with keen gray eyes.
“My lord. There is a visitor come to see you.”
“A visitor? What sort of visitor?” Nic threw down his pen, the estate books forgotten.
“A very attractive young lady visitor,” Abbot replied, with a smile that creased the lines about his eyes. Although he was only ten years Nic’s senior, Abbot’s hair was almost entirely gray.
Nic was genuinely surprised. “Surely she’s not here alone? No attractive young lady would dare come visiting me alone. I might lose control and ravish them.”
Abbot snorted.