Bridgeford Hall — Bedfordshire, England, 1847

"Blast it all, ladies get kissed, they do not do the kissing." Suri flopped back onto a pile of hay in a shadowy corner of the stable and waved off a cloud of dust. "Before you know it, you'll have ruined your entire coming out over a trifle."

Her half sister shoved an errant curl behind her ear and lifted her chin. "Not knowing how to kiss would hardly be insignificant should my future husband be amongst our guests."

"Oh, for pity's sake, Marguerite. I thought a morning ride might do the trick, but no, you're still a bundle of nerves. Yesterday you were all aflutter over the floral arrangements. What'll it be tomorrow? Deciding you need a different gown?"

At Marguerite's crestfallen look, Suri softened her words. "Have you forgotten that a gentleman might prefer you were innocent of such intimacies?"

Mischief carved little lines at the corners of Marguerite's eyes. "There's always our groomsman to teach me. He's got a fine mouth."

Suri pushed up on her elbows. "And a nasty habit of flapping that fine mouth. Davey would have every stable boy within a day's ride racing here with their tongues hanging to their knees hoping for a bit of what he got. Not to mention, Papa would have your neck if you got caught. You cannot be serious."

"If only I were," Marguerite sighed. "But whether I am good or bad at it, I intend to taste my first kiss tomorrow night, and that's that."

Suri picked bits of straw off her skirt. "Perhaps you should've settled on a masquerade ball for your coming out."

"And lose out on wearing my exquisite gown? Why ever would I want that?"

"Because costumed, you could've stolen kisses from a knight in shining armor or some fallen angel with gilded wings. Then you could have changed into your ball gown before the unmasking with no one the wiser."

"There's a splendid idea you should've thought of sooner."

"Ah, but then you'd not have the scandal you're obviously itching for."

"Don't be impertinent. I've made note of every shadowy corner outside the ballroom. Threat of discovery concerns me little."

The air shifted.

A shadow loomed over the two girls, blocking the morning's long shaft of sunlight streaming through the open doors of the stable.

Marguerite sucked in a breath. "Mercy, me."

Suri cupped a gloved hand over her eyes and squinted. Her heart skipped a beat. Could she actually be regarding the most gorgeous man she had ever laid eyes on? Or was this some figment of her imagination — the knight in shining armor — or the fallen angel? She stared while Marguerite scrambled to her feet and flapped her hands, straightening her skirt and jacket, sending a storm of hay and dust to swirl about.

"A dilemma, ladies?" His voice came low and clear, smooth as honey, and filled with a hint of amusement.

Definitely not the angel. Suri looked him over as boldly as he scrutinized Marguerite. He was tall, long-legged — at least he appeared that way from her supine angle. She sat upright. Yes, definitely long-legged. And well built. She had never seen such a fine cut of a man in the flesh.

He finished scrutinizing Marguerite and turned to regard Suri, his clear gray eyes filled with humor. And a sudden glimmer of something else. Interesting, that flicker ... of ... what?

His brown knee-high boots appeared expensive, and new, judging by the stiff and shiny leather. His suede breeches hadn't seen many days, either. Snug fit ... a dapper? His blue super-fine jacket lay open to reveal an exquisitely stitched white waistcoat buttoned tight over a flat stomach. A snowy white cravat, tied just so, emphasized golden skin that looked as if it received a fair amount of sun. He wore no hat atop dark locks that curled softly over his collar.

One corner of his lips twitched as he watched her study him.

His mouth caught her complete attention and sent a small quiver running through her. Full and invitingly supple, the top lip swept in gentle curves resembling an archer's bow. And his bottom lip — was that a dimple in the middle? Whatever the little dip was, it certainly was comely. I wonder what his kisses taste like. An odd warmth flowed through her at the thought.

He laughed at her — the laughter entirely in his eyes.

He read my mind? Suri's heart skipped another beat. Refusing to rise, she only sat up a bit straighter. "Who are you, and how did you get past the groomsman?"

His eyes fairly sparkled with mischief. "If you intend to be kissed, ladies, fair warning — it would behoove you to know the rules."

Whoever this stranger was, he was quite comfortable in his own skin. Perhaps a bit too cocksure of himself.

"Did you not hear me, sir? How did you manage your way past the groomsman, and who, pray tell, are you to march in here and intervene in a private conversation between two people you have never met? Why, we haven't even been properly introduced."

He folded his arms over his broad chest and slowly, ever so slowly, ran his gaze the length of Suri, from her head to the tips of her dusty riding boots and up, settling on her lips.

Something ... something ... rolled through her lower belly like a storm hell-bent on ravaging the landscape. Heavens.

A lazy smile tipped one corner of his mouth.

Marguerite's sharp intake of breath caught Suri's ear. Would her sister never learn to contain herself?

"I've an appointment with the Duke of Bridgeford."

"Impossible," Suri said. "Our father is engaged in an annual meeting with a peer."

"Would that be the Duke of Ravenswood?"

Suri's spine stiffened. "I daresay, you are quite bold, sir. Who are you?"

"Ravenswood was my father. He met his demise, and I've come in his stead." He glanced at his sleeve, dusted it with a gloved hand. "I arrived a bit late, but I am here nonetheless."

"Then you are now His Grace?" Marguerite asked.

"Fortunately, no. I am merely Lord John Fairfax, second in line. My brother had far too many appointments this week, and I was sent."

"I am sorry for your loss." Suri made to rise.

He motioned for her to remain seated. "Please, do not stand on my account. His Grace died eleven months ago. Enough time has passed to have adjusted. Now then, ladies, back to the subject at hand." He turned to Marguerite. "I take it you are to attend your coming out ball? And you expect your first kiss?"

"Oh, for heaven's sake," Suri said. "'Tis none of your concern."

"Ah, none of my concern, perhaps, but I would wager I am more trustworthy than your groomsman. So you are sisters? You look nothing alike."

His scrutiny was bolder than bold this time, but Suri refused to take her eyes off him. No doubt he was busy comparing the vast differences between the two. While Marguerite was nearly a head taller than Suri with wayward curls winding about her head like red corkscrews, Suri's black hair fell thick and straight to her waist. And then there were the eyes. Marguerite's were a lovely sable brown flecked with gold, but Suri's were so green she'd been told they resembled cut emeralds.

She smirked. "We're twins."

Soft laughter escaped her sister's lips. "Actually, we are half-sisters who happen to be exceedingly close — in age and otherwise. I am Lady Marguerite, and this...