Chapter 1

London, 1875

'Lady Eleanor Cantwell,' the herald announced and immediately, every lady and gentleman in the ballroom averted their gaze to the top of the staircase. The lady in question fidgeted under the stare of every single person in the room but managed - with quite the effort - to keep a polite smile on her face and walk down the stairs, not once tripping on the ridiculously long train of her ball gown, and alighting at the bottom with the grace and poise that could have rivalled the queen's.

'Well done, darling,' her father, who was waiting at the bottom, whispered into her ear as he took her arm in his and led her away from the scrutinising looks that were being thrown her way.

'Thank you, papa,' she said under her breath, all the while keeping the smile plastered across her face. 'Although, I am quite uncomfortable in this blasted dress.'

Her father, trying to hide a smirk at her daughter's use of language, led her to the centre of the ballroom and positioned himself to dance. Eleanor never used such language - after all, it was not proper for a lady to do so, as her mother liked to constantly remind her - but her father said nothing. After all, this was her coming out ball.

The quartet, which had stopped playing upon her arrival, started up again and her father led her in the dance as the rest of the ballroom joined in.

A few minutes later, the song ended and everyone cheered politely as Eleanor curtsied low and her father bowed deep. The music soon started up again and everyone moved in to the next dance as her father escorted her to the side.

'Now there,' her father said, smiling down at Eleanor, 'that wasn't so bad, was it?'

'I still want to take off this dress,' Eleanor said, itching to run out of the ballroom and change out of the layers of lace, net and silk. She was sure that any onlooker - had they not known it was her - would have mistaken her for an enormous pastry. The white silk which her dress was made of certainly did nothing to deter such thoughts.

'Dear me, has the day arrived? Is Eleanor Cantwell actually thinking of walking about in her undergarments?' It was Adrian Fielding, her not-so-beloved cousin, who had made the scandalous comment. His mother, the Countess of Birmingham - who had come to stand by her son's side - gasped and hit her son with her fan.

'Adrian,' she screeched. 'Where are your manners? Apologise at once!'

Adrian immediately adorned a look of guilt before looking at his cousin. Eleanor, sensing an apology coming her way, straightened.

'I am sorry, cousin -' Adrian began but Eleanor cut him mid-sentence with a small nod of her head. 'It is quite alright.'

'-that you would probably look like a horse's bottom in your undergarments,' he finished before taking off in the opposite direction, laughing like a lunatic, leaving a shocked Eleanor in his wake. Her father however looked suspiciously as if he was fighting to not laugh but the countess, like Eleanor, was aghast.

Eleanor stared after Adrian in shock as her father let out a mighty guffaw.

'Albert!' her father's sister screeched. 'Don't laugh!' Lady Birmingham was red in the face and fuming.

'My apologies, dear,' her father said as the last of the laughter left him. 'Adrian merely reminds me of myself at his age. Seventeen was a long while ago.'

Eleanor, ever the lady, merely smiled - albeit quite forced - and shook her head softly. 'Adrian was simply being silly. I hardly found offense.'

The countess fanned herself while her eyes darted around the vast expanse of the ballroom, undoubtedly looking for a potential bride for Adrian. Never mind that her son was just out of Eton, she had decreed that one must start the search years in advance to root out the unscrupulous ladies of the ton. She had recently been hounding Eleanor with questions about different ladies, although she could not fathom why - it was not as if Eleanor had many friends. In any case, she pitied the poor girl who would be succumbed to her aunt's endless prattle.

Her father's arm suddenly tensed where it was still linked with hers and she looked up at him. His previous cheeriness had vanished, and in its place a terseness had settled his gaze focused elsewhere. Eleanor followed it to a man at the other end of the ballroom, immersed in conversation with a woman. He looked harmless enough but her father's expression made her wonder whether there was something amiss between the two. The air around her had a sudden palpable tension to it.

'I'll just be a moment,' Lord Salford said, his attention drifting back to the current party. 'I need to see a man about a horse.' He was off the next moment, in the direction of the man, his strides determined and agitated. Eleanor could not help but continue to have her attention glued to her father, who had now drawn the man aside into a seemingly grave discussion.

'Eleanor,' her aunt said suddenly, drawing her away from thoughts of her father. Her aunt must have found her next victim. 'Who is that girl dancing with Adrian?' Her aunt's finger pointed to a spot in the middle of the ballroom.

Eleanor followed her aunt's finger to realise - with horror - that the girl was her best friend, Gabrielle Addington. Gabrielle's golden locks flew behind her as she glided across the dance floor, breathtaking in her evening gown of deep purple and diamonds that sparkled at her ear lobes. Gabrielle was too dear for Eleanor to throw her to the wolves.

'That is Lady Gabrielle Addington,' Eleanor told her aunt who was looking at the pair curiously - she must already be planning the wedding. 'But I do not think she is available for Adrian.'

Instantly, her aunt's head swivelled to look at her and her eyes narrowed. 'Why ever not?' she asked. 'She is not married or affianced, is she?'

Eleanor shook her head furiously. 'No, but I believe her father wishes for her to wed a French viscount.' She was spewing absolute rubbish but her aunt needn't know that.

Lady Birmingham's eyes narrowed even further as she studied Eleanor and she prayed her lie was enough to detract from Gabrielle.

Her prayers must have been answered for the next moment, her aunt's peering ceased and she walked away muttering what a shame it was that the French secured all the pretty ladies.

'I have half a mind to punch your dimwit of a cousin, Ellie,' a panting voice said next to her. The song had ended and several couples were walking to their seats. Eleanor turned to find her best friend breathless and her chest heaving heavily. ''Tis a travesty, the number of times he trod on my feet! And I could hardly refuse him when he asked lest he went about spreading rumours about my odious nostrils. He is such a gossip - worse than the mamas of the ton!'

'Gabby, for the last time, your nostrils are of a perfectly acceptable size,' Eleanor exclaimed. Her friend was always lamenting about how large her nostrils were. Eleanor couldn't see why. She was beautiful through and through. Of course, she might be biased towards Gabrielle, her being the only one who deigned to speak more than two sentences to her, but it was the truth as well.

'By the by, you ought to thank me,' Eleanor added. The countess was considering you a perfect bride for Adrian.'

Gabrielle's eyes grew wide in horror as she asked, 'My mother wishes me to marry Adrian?'

Eleanor laughed. 'Lord, no. Your mother would not let you marry Adrian if you begged on your knees. She absolutely loathes him! I am speaking of Lady Birmingham.'

At this, Gabrielle's horror only increased as was evident from her expression. 'No!' she shrieked, unladylike.

'Worry not,' Eleanor assured her. 'I told her your father has his eyes set on a French viscount for you.'

Gabrielle laughed heartily. 'And she believed it?'

Eleanor nodded. 'But it comes as no surprise. The countess has always been quite...' she trailed off, not knowing how to describe her aunt in the least rude way possible.

'Stupid?' Gabrielle offered, her eyebrows arching.

Eleanor swatted her with her fan. Stupid was right - indeed, it was the most accurate word for her aunt - but it was incredibly rude as well. 'Keep your voice down. You'll alert the entire room at this level!'

'Oh, like I care about what the ton thinks. Their hypocrisy knows no bounds.' Gabrielle sighed just then. 'You have always been far too prim and proper, Ellie. You need not be so, especially not with the way they treat you.'

Eleanor swallowed at the reminder but waved away the comment, unperturbed. 'A lady does not do to be improper,' she said turning to face the dancing couples.

'So sayeth your mother,' Gabrielle said, disgust lacing her tone.

'And she is right.'

'How can you defend your mother when she treats you like – dare I say it – the dirt beneath her boot?' Gabrielle's voice held sorrow as she looked at her with sympathy.

Eleanor's breathing hitched. Gabrielle was right. Her mother treated her no better than the maids. It was not Eleanor's fault she was born Indian - the country that the British colonised and now, ruled. It was not her fault her skin was the colour of wheat. Of course, the rest of the world pitied Lady Salford. Her husband had adopted a girl – an Indian savage – and she could not do anything about it. They condoned her treatment of Eleanor, reprimands and criticism aplenty. Unless her father stepped in, Eleanor was the daily victim of the marchioness's insults.

Eleanor truly despised her. But she could not let anyone in on that little fact. The world flocked to her mother and would throw rocks at her if they could. So she braved insult after insult, forcing herself to not reveal what she really wanted to say. She only prayed, she could go away from here soon and having to interact only with whom she wished.

Eleanor was interrupted in her musings and saved from answering Gabrielle by a man who now stood before her, his hand outstretched.

'May I have this dance, my lady?' asked Sir Daniel Hadleigh, London's most notorious womaniser. Eleanor internally gagged at the sly smirk on his face which had, sadly, wooed many. It didn't matter he was nearing forty, women of all ages still fell at his feet the minute he turned his roguish smile their way. Eleanor longed to turn him down but that would only set tongues wagging, something she very much dreaded. It wasn't as if she didn't already do that by merely existing.

'Of course,' she said, forcing a smile and placing her hand in Sir Hadleigh's. She could see Gabrielle shooting daggers at Daniel from behind her. Thank the Lord she had a few people on her side, at the very least. Silently praying that Gabrielle would not do anything rash - not that Eleanor would mind very much - she made her way onto the dance floor, her palm clammy in Sir Hadleigh's iron grip.

However, when Daniel placed his hand on her waist and began to sway her to the music of the waltz which the quartet had suddenly decided to play, she prayed God would smite him then and there.

'So, Ellie -' Eleanor threw up in her mouth at the use of her nickname, '- I heard that you are searching for a suitor.'

'Of course, sir,' she bit out, shocked at his audacity to address it out loud. 'I believe that is what all women my age is searching for.'

Even if they did not really wish to, she thought.

However much she tried to be proper and live within society's rules, she did not find the concept of marriage very alluring - even if that was what every other girl dreamed of and were raised to do. She had seen many ton marriages and how miserable both parties - especially the wife - were and did not understand why anyone ever subjected themselves to it – granted, women rarely had a choice in the matter and neither did some men. Eleanor pitied them. Her heritage, however, kept all men at bay - except for the occasional dance - and her father had already resigned himself to the fact that his daughter would be a spinster. Neither of them minded. Only her mother did for that meant having to live with her until death did them part.

'Which brings me to the matter at hand,' Daniel said softly.

Eleanor's breathing quickened and her heart thudded against her ribcage as Daniel lowered his mouth to speak into her ear. 'I have a proposition for you.'

Dear God, no.

Horror and fear coursed through her veins as his hand which rested at her waist began to slip down and trace her back as it reached –

'May I interrupt you, Hadleigh, for a dance with the lady?' a silky voice said beside her.

Daniel whirled around - his hand leaving her, to Eleanor's great gratification - to look at the interrupter. Eleanor, too, joined him in his action and instantly caught her breath.

The man standing before her was the most gorgeous man she had ever laid eyes upon. He had dark black hair, not unlike her own, which fell in beautiful waves upon his head. His face was chiselled perfection with a well-defined and sharp jaw and a nose befitting a Greek god. And his eyes; they were a most brilliant shade of blue, like that of the sea. He was Adonis, reincarnate.

Eleanor was still gaping at the man when he lent her his hand.

'Well, my lady?' he asked, his eyes boring into hers, a hint of sparkle in them. 'May I have this dance?' She looked around for Sir Hadleigh to find that he was nowhere in sight. The breath she hadn't realised she was holding left her.

Shaking herself out of her reverie, she accepted his hand with a low curtsy. 'I would be delighted, my lord,' she said, her voice shaky. Although she did not know the man, she knew he was a lord - that much was clear from his finely-tailored clothes and air of importance. But the fact remained that she had not been introduced to her. It was only proper for a gentleman and lady to converse with each other after a formal introduction between the two by a mutually close party was set up. What they were doing now...heavens, the impropriety! Especially to cut short her dance with another.

The man bowed back and took her by the waist, sending a shiver down her spine. Something about him was mysterious, in ways she could not comprehend. Before she could delve further into an analysis however, he had swung her around, guiding her through the waltz which had struck up.

At this rate, the patronesses at Almack's would remove Eleanor from the Season soon. The dreadfully small space between the man and her was already causing a scandal if the growing whispers around her were indeed about her.

Eleanor looked up at the man from under her lashes. Who was this intriguing man? Why had he asked her - her, of all the other lovely ladies at the ball! - to dance?

Maybe, her inner voice reminded her, it is because this is your ball, after all.

'- know who I am,' said a voice.

Eleanor stared up. 'What?' she asked dumbfound, quite impolitely. Had he been speaking to her the whole time she had been admiring him?

'I said,' the man said, 'that despite the lack of introduction, you must know who I am.'

Eleanor lowered her face to hide the sudden scoff that had emanated at his self-importance. 'No, my lord, I do not.'

'If you don't, how do you know I'm a lord?' he asked. Eleanor looked up at him to find amusement written on his face and wondered how she would explain to him without implying that she thought him dashing.

'I...um...it is just -' she began but the man interrupted her.

'No matter,' he said, his grip on her waist tightening. 'I am Nathan Huntington, the Duke of Wolverhampton.'

Eleanor felt her eyes widen and another shiver went down her spine.

So, this was the renowned Duke of Wolverhampton! She had heard the rumours but truthfully, they did not do him any justice, she thought. Everyone knew of the dashing and charming duke who, in the wake of his parents' death, had retreated from society and vanished without a trace nearly three years ago. It was only this year that he had returned, making his appearances at a couple of balls.

'I-I d-did not know, Your Grace,' she said. What was it about him that made her stammer and forget how to speak?

Lord Wolverhampton, however, shot her a brilliant smile. ' 'Tis alright,' he said.

Eleanor merely nodded and lowered her head.

'This is a fine ball your father has thrown in your honour,' he said, looking around.

'Thank you, Your Grace.'

'And you look absolutely beautiful.'

'Thank you, Your Grace.'

'Are you incapable of saying anything other than "Thank you, Your Grace"?' Lord Wolverhampton enquired, a wolfish grin on his face.

Eleanor blushed a brilliant shade of red. 'I am sorry, Your Grace,' she muttered. Good Lord, this man would be the death of her! Why was she so flustered around him? Her demeanour was never like this around other men!

But no other man you have met looked as dashing as him, her inner voice said. She agreed.

Desperate to look anywhere but at him, she looked around for Gabrielle. Instead, she caught her mother's eye.

Lady Marilyn Cantwell looked ever the perfect marchioness in her exquisite ball gown, even more so than her own. The emeralds that glittered on her neck and wrists screamed wealth and grandeur. But when she tried to decipher the look on her mother's face - which she had initially thought was disgust for her Indian daughter - she realised her mother looked...proud. Undoubtedly because she was dancing with a duke.

Sorry mother, but I do not think he has any intention of making me his wife, she thought.

'Lady Eleanor,' the duke said suddenly in a low baritone. 'I need to speak to you. Would you consent to speak to me in private?' His eyes had turned dark.

'In private, Your Grace? I daresay we require a chaperone,' she said, quite nervous. The look in his eyes was quite unnerving.

'Do you -' he began but could not finish his sentence because the Prime Minister had walked up to the two of them.

'Ah, Wolverhampton. I would like a word with you,' he said, not bothering to acknowledge her beside him.

The previous look in Lord Wolverhampton's eyes was gone now and he released her before bowing. Eleanor curtsied back.

'Thank you for the dance, Lady Eleanor,' he said before he left with the Prime Minister, leaving Eleanor dumbstruck and pondering over an intriguing question:

Why had he wanted to speak to me?