Katherine Langford is in London ready to make her debut to society when she discovers that the home next door is being rented by the "Murderous Marquess" Hayden Rowling. Always impulsive, Katy decides to sneak over and take a peek at the notorious M...
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But he refused to relent. I would be his bride or no man's at all!
"The Marquess of Oakleigh," The buttler announced as he appeared in the doorway. Although the wizened old fellow managed to keep his expression remarkably impassive, his bushy white eyebrows appeared to be in imminent danger of taking flight.
Tristan Townsend nearly choked on a mouthful of cigar smoke as Hayden St. Clair came striding into the smoking room of his Kensington town house. Although Tristan made an instinctive grab for the pamphlets and newspapers scattered across the writing table, it was too late to do more than lean across them and hope his shadow would blot out the most damning of the headlines.
"So you've decided to pay a call on me after all," Tristan said, mustering up his most affable smile. "Perhaps your manners aren't as rusty with disuse as I feared. To what do I owe the honor of this visit? I thought you were leaving for Cornwall this morning and here it is well after noon."
"I would have already been gone if it weren't for you and your infernal meddling," Hayden replied, leveling a glacial glare at him through his frosty hazel eyes.
Tristan couldn't help but wonder if that had been the last look Phillipe has seen across the grassy field of Wimbledon Common nearly five years ago.
Hayden's appearance was in stark contrast to Tristan's own short-cropped hair, starched cravat, and polished brass buttons. Hayden's boots were scuffed and at least three years out of fashion, his cravat loosely tied and ever so slightly askew. His coat hung loose over his rangy frame, as if he'd scorned more than a few meals recently. As was his habit, he was carrying his beaver top hat instead of wearing it, which had left his shaggy hair at the mercy of the wind. Despite his noble birth, there had always been a hint of the savage about the man, a vaguely uncivilized quality most women, both ladies and lightskirts, seemed to find irresistible. When forced to choose between Tristan, Hayden, and Phillipe, they had invariably chosen Hayden.
Just as Justine had done.
Tristan took a deep drag on the cigar, affecting an air of wide-eyed innocence. "I have no idea what you're talking about."
"Oh, come now. Surely you can't be the only soul in London who hasn't heard about last night's debacle." Hayden's gaze fell on the scattered newspapers. His jaw tightened. "No, I can see you're not."
Before Tristan could protest to the contrary, Hayden had jerked that morning's copy of The Times out from under his elbow. He held it up to the early afternoon sunlight streaming through the bow windows and read the bold headline with dramatic relish. "'M.M. Claims Another Victim in Crime of Passion.'" As Tristan sank back in his chair, admitting defeat, Hayden scooped up two more papers. "'M.M. Gives Kiss of Death to Innocent's Reputation.' Oh, and we mustn't forget that bastion of responsible journalism, the St. James Chronicle—'Debutante Succumbs to Lord Death's Irresistible Embrace.'"
