Chapter One

Lord Bletchley’s hopes for an advantageous marriage waned when Rhiannon dumped her wine over his head.

Rhiannon Winston, daughter of the imposing Baron of Hearthwood and imposing in her own right, glared at the man seated beside her as he dabbed daintily at the single eyebrow that stretched over his muddy eyes like a dead caterpillar. He tucked the blackwork-embellished lace handkerchief back into his sleeve, clucking his disapproval. When he said in the syrupy, patronizing manner that she had come to despise in the hour she had known him, “Now, my dear, that wasn’t very kind,” she debated adding the soup to the wine. A stern glare from her mother held her hand, but she would not stay her tongue.

“I am not your ‘dear’, sirrah, and you have not leave to chastise me!”

Baroness Winston sighed as she gazed over at her husband; he met her gaze with a slight shaking of his head. She had attempted to educate her impetuous daughter in the behaviors and manners befitting a lady, but Rhiannon had too much of her father’s fire in her and none of his self-control. The Baron, seeing the resignation in his wife’s face, decided to take matters into his own hands.

“However, daughter,” he boomed, “I may chastise you as I see fit, and you shall not abuse guests in my own home!”

Her father was the only man Rhiannon hesitated to defy, but at this moment she was past prudence. “Father, this buffoon assumes too much! He would see us wed before I agree to this odious match! How dare he make such suggestions to me about our nuptials! It is revolting!”

Wisely, Baroness Winston extended her hand to the perspiring lord, who had once again produced his handkerchief. “Sir, will you join me in the study? I shall have wine brought to us, and Julia, my lady-in-waiting, is most excellent on the lute. I will have her play for us.”

Lord Bletchley accepted her offer gratefully, uncomfortable as always with confrontation. Perhaps all the wench’s titles and beauty were not worth braving such a vile temper. He followed the gracious hostess from the dining hall, giving a surreptitious pinch to the maid, who restrained her squeal. She did not think it wise at this moment to let this man’s proclivities be known. She had heard tell of what he was doing with the young women of the household, and receiving a pinch was nothing compared to what some other girls had undergone. She was getting away lucky with nothing but his hard fingers on the softness of her bottom.

When the servants closed the doors behind them, Winston took his seat and steepled his fingers before him. His voice was quiet, controlled, and Rhiannon recognized that he was angrier than she. She preferred his rages over this cold, reserved man