After her dissolute husband is killed, Abigail Backworth Maldon is in no
rush to remarry. She keeps busy playing matchmaker, scheming to unite a
niece with wealthy Kipp Rutland. But she just can't stop herself from
thinking of him. And Kipp Rutland has no intention to marry her. And
yet... even as the mind shouts no, the heart is making other plans.
Chapter One
The two nattily dressed gentlemen entered Hyde Park through Park Lane,
curly-brimmed beavers jauntily tipped on their heads, canes lazily
swinging at their sides, their air of sophisticated boredom
half-feigned, half-all too real.
One dark and handsome. One fair and more than handsome; almost pretty.
Both of them titled, both of them wealthy, popular, self-assured.
Blessedly unattached.
They stopped, posed, sniffed the air like any buck hoping to pick up a
scent. Exchanged meaningful glances. Touched assessing fingers to their
cravats, shot their cuffs. Proceeded on their way with consciously
relaxed saunters, and yet with alert, watchful eyes.
Part predator. Part prey.
Hyde Park had once been a hunting ground, full of deer and boar and wild
bulls. Over the centuries, many duels were fought beneath the trees as
the morning mist gave way to a watery sun. There had once been
fortifications there, military camps had dotted the thick grass.
Footpads had once owned the Park, until Charles II enclosed the entire
area with high walls and William III had the happy idea of lining the
route du roi with over three hundred lanterns hanging in the
trees.
Now the Park presented a place of peace, of exquisite landscaping, of
bridle paths, carriageways, and quiet walks, the air perfumed with the
scent of thousands of flowers. The sun-kissed waters of the large,
ornamental lake named Serpentine had been the creation of Queen
Caroline, who had ordered the damming of the Westbourne so that she and
her family could relax aboard either of the two yachts that had once
bobbed on its surface.
Yes, Hyde Park was a lovely, tranquil place.
But, as the two men well knew, it remained very much as it had begun...
a hunting ground.
"Oh, do cast your gaze over there, Kipp," the dark-haired gentleman
prodded, nodding to their left. "Not that I need direct you, for I'm
convinced we can both sniff out the desperation from here."
Kipp Rutland did as his friend bade him, lazily cocking his head in time
to see a rented hack all but running away with its driver, the always
hapless and definitely pocket-pinched Sir Alvin Clarke. The man dressed
as best as he could, which meant that his collar and cuffs were probably
on their second turning in order to disguise their fraying edges.
Obviously a cow-handed driver, he hung on to the reins for dear life as
he tried, quite unsuccessfully, to capture the attention of a young
debutante and her protective mama.
"You know, Kipp, young Clarke's as much chance of winning a first at
Newmarket with that nag as he does of snagging Miss Oliver in his
threadbare matrimonial net," Brady James, Earl of Singleton declared,
not without some small trace of pity. "Thank the good Lord I've sworn
off marriage, or else that could be me making a cake of myself." He
shuddered, elegantly.
"If your comment is meant as some sly, backhanded sympathy directed
toward me, Brady," Kipp, who was also the Viscount Willoughby, said as
they continued along the pathway, "I will accept it gladly, and with
both hands. Now, do you see any prospects for your dear friend?"
Brady's grin was wicked. "Me? You expect me to pick your bride?"
Kipp tipped his hat as an open carriage chock-full of giggling ladies
drove past. "Why not, Brady? I've always admired your taste. Except for
that satin waistcoat you had stuck to yourself the other night.
