Hyde Park, London
Morning, 15 May 1810
Nicolette Twistleton puffed out a soft, poignant sigh as she strolled the sun-dappled footpath along the southern bank of the Serpentine in Hyde Park.
Bella, her pug puppy, frolicked about, yanking on her leash in an energetic attempt to investigate every single thing she happened upon: leaves, sticks, insects, rocks, worms, people— and their shoes. She had a particular penchant for the latter, which she thoroughly enjoyed ruining with her needle-like teeth.
Thus far, a trio of Nicolette’s slippers and a pair of half-boots had met a gruesome end.
A pair of brownish-gray mourning doves swooped across the pathway, landing beneath a flowering cherry tree’s heavily laden branches. Cooing softly, they touched bills, in what almost appeared to be an avian kiss.
Several feet behind Nicolette—enough to permit a bit of privacy but not so much as to cause raised eyebrows—her maid, Jane, carried Nicolette’s parasol and hummed softly to herself.
A distracted half-smile curving her mouth, Jane twirled the plump pink peony she’d plucked from the front flower bed when they left the house an hour ago.
Jane was madly in love.
She and Jack, one of the Twistleton grooms, were to wed next month. Her dreamy expression and wistful sighs were beginning to wear on Nicolette’s tattered nerves, however. As happy as she was for the loyal servant, she couldn’t prevent the reoccurring twinge in the region of her heart.
Oh, the pang most assuredly was not envy.
No indeed—God forbid such a wholly ludicrous idea.
The familiar ache was a bitter reminder of Nicolette’s absolute humiliation and devastation two years ago. Her then betrothed, Alfonse Bremerton, the Duke of Kilbourne, had jilted her a mere four hours before they were to have exchanged vows at St. George’s Church. After the odious churl had danced with her thrice at a ball the night before, pretending to be the doting soon-to-be groom.
When his note had arrived the morn of their wedding day, she’d eagerly opened it, expecting a love note.
Nicolette,
I cannot marry you.
Forgive me.
K
Kilbourne hadn’t even deemed her worthy of an endearment.
Seven words.
Twelve short syllables.
Thirteen if you counted Alfonse’s initial, which she did not.
That was all it took to destroy Nicolette’s life, her plans for the future, and make her determined never to trust a rogue again. Or even marry for that matter.
How could she possibly ever trust her gullible heart again?
By the time she’d received her former betrothed’s cryptic note calling off their wedding, the cowardly cur was already half-way to Gretna Green with Maribelle Grosenick—a vulgarly rich heiress hailing from America.
Even more mortifying—salt in an already festering wound—Kilbourne’s heir, a healthy male child, had entered the world a mere six-and one-half months later. Irrefutable proof that the blackguard had been playing Nicolette false during their courtship.
And he’d dared—dared, by God!—to plead with her to consummate their vows the eve of their wedding. After all, they were to exchange vows on the morrow, he’d cajoled, and all the while, Kilbourne had been plotting to scorn her.
Scapegrace. Hog-grubber. Jackanape.
Typical man—controlled by that thing between his legs and not the brain in the head atop his shoulders. And most assuredly not governed by any sense of decency, honor, or chivalry.
“Contemptible, maggot-patted bounder.” She snorted, loudly and most indelicately, earning her a curious look from Bella’s big brown eyes and also sending the cooing doves to wing.
“No, I wasn’t talking to you, my precious darling,” Nicolette told the sweet little dog, she acquired the purebred pug in Colechester two months ago. Bending, she patted Bella’s soft head, earning a doggy grin in return. “Are you having fun?”
Tongue lolling, Bella gazed at her adoringly and promptly tried to nip Nicolette’s gloved fingers in an attempt to play. Everything was a chew toy for the teething pup.
Thank goodness for this little dog who’d helped ease the sadness and loneliness Nicolette hid from the world behind a carefully constructed contradictory facade: part carefree flirt and part coldly aloof spinster.
She donned her mask of gay coquette and pretended to all of the world that she didn’t have a single care. That being jilted hadn’t affected her in the least. Until a man became too familiar or forward, then she retreated into an icy shell.
Men never knew which she’d be, on any given occasion, and she preferred it that way. It kept them slightly off-balance, which meant they couldn’t ever get close to her. And if they couldn’t get close, she ran no risk of heartbreak again.
It also kept the gentlemen from presuming too much. And Nicolette’s caustic tongue deterred even the more daring of the bucks from over boldness. She’d once overheard two matrons declaring Nicolette’s tongue was sharp enough to scrape barnacles from a ship.
Bah, she scolded herself for allowing her mind to wander down these melancholy paths on such a lovely day.
She was better off without Kilbourne.
That, she now knew to be an unqualified fact. For a man who’d stray while betrothed would assuredly do so once vows had been exchanged.
Had Maribelle considered that when she’d dallied with another’s affianced?
She ought to have.
For if the rumors were accurate—and there was generally a tidbit of truth in all tattle if one dug around enough to find the nugget—he’d recently become romantically entangled with an Italian opera singer.
Another sound of disgust echoed in Nicolette’s throat.
That made his fifth mistress since marrying.
Perchance, the lure of a title had sufficed for Maribelle, and after providing the requisite heir, she was content with her lot. Gossip also had it that the Duchess of Kilbourne was in the Americas for an extensive visit.
So perhaps, she’d come to her senses, after all.
Nevertheless, from that fateful day onward, at twenty years old, Nicolette had relegated love and all of the other flimflam associated with the useless emotion to a fusty, secluded corner of her heart. Where, in time, she hoped to forget she’d ever entertained such foolish, fanciful notions.
Pragmatism had replaced romanticism—reality instead of girlish daydreams.
Her desire for love had been exchanged with a passion for adventure. At least that’s what she believed this restlessness besetting her was. She’d approached Mama and Ansley about the possibility of traveling to exotic foreign destinations. But both had looked at her with such incredulity, she might’ve sprouted a pair of wings upon her shoulders or feathers in her hair.
Her mother and brother did not share her enthusiasm for exploring other cultures and places. They were perfectly content dividing their time between London during the Season and Fawtonbrooke Hall the rest of the time.
Oh, an occasional short holiday to Bath or Bristol, or even a jaunt to France or Scotland for a few days, might be acceptable. But nothing so dramatic or distant as exploring ancient cities or other antiquities.
However, for a spinster facing a boring, lonely future, the notion of visiting faraway, mystical places had taken the place of her desire for love, marriage, and children.