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Chapter One

London, late July 1819

"No."

The word, though spoken softly, seemed to echo throughout the small parlor. Perched on die padded edge of a green brocade sofa, Emily Fitzgerald cringed as her own voice rang in her ears.

Alexander Cross, the Viscount Stanton, stared at her as if he hadn't expected to go through all the trouble of bringing flowers and kneeling on the beige, rose, and green Aubusson carpet only to have his proposal of marriage refused.

"No?" The surprise in his normally calm voice proved Emily right. He hadn't expected her to deny him.

Knotting her trembling fingers together in the rosy muslin of her skirts, Emily nodded. She hoped that she looked more composed than she felt, but it was oddly discomfiting to look such a handsome young man square in his dark brown eyes and tell him that she didn't want to be his wife -- especially when she couldn't come up with any good reason as to why she didn't want to marry him.

Oh, there was the fact that she didn't love him, but that was hardly a reason to refuse an offer of marriage as far as society was concerned. A girl with her scandalous family should be happy any gentleman would ask for her at all, let alone a viscount. And Alexander was as wealthy and charming as he was tall and handsome. Any young woman would be glad to have him.

Any young woman, that was, who wouldn't mind being bored silly for the rest of her life. It was cruel, but there it was. Alexander was a good man, but Emily felt nothing but friendship toward him.

Straightening her spine, Emily met Alexander's bewildered gaze with a steady one of her own. "I'm flattered by your offer, Lord Stanton, but my answer must be no."

"Must it?" The young viscount made no attempt to hide his disappointment, or his anger, as he rose to his feet. At six and twenty, Alexander was this season's prime catch. He could have any young woman he wanted.

Well, almost any. Emily had no idea what had ever enticed him to ask for her.

"Yes," she replied, also rising. She was tired of this stiff politeness, this tiresome propriety. Even angry he played the gentleman, for that was what was expected of him, especially since Emily's maid sat playing chaperone in the far corner of the room. Pamela could not hear their conversation, but she would make certain the viscount's behavior remained proper. A young woman's virtue must be protected at all times. A young woman must never be in the company of a young gentleman alone. A young woman didn't have enough sense not to fall prey to a young man's lechery.

Sometimes, Emily wished she could ignore all of society's rules and regulations. She was tired of always watching everything she said and did. Not that it was a struggle; indeed, it was so much a part of her that she did it automatically.

Alexander said nothing. He just stared at her as though she was some oddity on display in a museum. Emily returned his gaze until she grew tired of the contest. Then she looked away.

And, she thought somewhat wryly as she toed the cabbage roses in the carpet with her slipper, she was tired of dressing to look like a flower, like a delicate blossom. Her gown and shoes were the same rosy color as the blooms in the carpet. As an unmarried woman, she was expected to wear childlike, pale colors.

Lady Emily," he said, his voice low and cajoling once again, "Think about what you are saying."

Her back as stiff as the Prince Regent's corset, Emily smiled coolly. The only thing worse than having to dress like a child was being treated like one.

"I know exactly what I am saying, Lord Stanton. I am saying no. 'Tis you who seems to lack understanding."

He looked genuinely surprised at that remark. How could he not be? As a handsome young peer of the realm, he was used to getting what he wanted. Alexander was also one of the kindest men of her acquaintance. The idea that he was proposing out of some sense of chivalry had not escaped Emily.

"Who else will marry you?" he blurted out, his face turning the same pale pink as her gown.

"I think perhaps you should go now, Lord Stanton." How cool she sounded, how calm! But she knew her own face was even redder than the viscount's. Who else indeed?

But he wasn't ready to give up just yet. "I am sorry, Lady Emily. I did not mean to be so unfeeling, but surely you see the truth in my words? The unfortunate events surrounding your brother's departure from England have seriously hampered your chances of making a good marriage."

Emily's jaw was tight. "And yet here you are, offering me just such an arrangement." If her father were alive, he would handle this awkward situation. But her Papa was gone and nothing could bring him back.

The viscount glanced down at his polished boots. "I do not hold you responsible for your brother's actions." He looked up, his gaze so warm it filled Emily with alarm.

"No one who knows you could ever blame you for what happened."

But they did. Oh, maybe society didn't blame her per se, but she suffered the ramifications of her brother Richard's madness just as surely as if it had been her own. It was just one of the many flaws of the aristocratic world -- in Emily's opinion -- that one's actions often reflected upon one's family as well. Her brother Richard had tried to kill their half brother, Ewan, after discovering that Ewan would inherit their father's title ...