Page 1 of Tempting the Marquess

Prologue

Somewhere on the London-Eton road,April1799

“Standish?Can you hear me, lad? Open youreyes!”

Ignoring the stranger’s harsh-voiced urging, William Hastings kept his eyes resolutelyshut.

Opening them would only encourage the pain hovering on the edge of his consciousness to explode into full-blown agony, and his head already felt split in two. Besides, why would he obey someone who couldn’t even get his title correct? He was Viscount Rydell, the heir. Father was the Marquess of Standish.

“Standish?” the man repeated, accompanying his words with a gentle shake.

“Do not t...touch him!” interrupted a tear-choked feminine voice. “And stop calling himthat.”

“Forgive me, my lady, but the factis...”

“The fact is, sir, you are n...needed elsewhere. I will remain with Lord Rydell.”

“All right, all right,” the man said gruffly, his boots crunching loudly on the ground as he strodeaway.

“William?” the woman again, nearer this time. “Come on now, darling, wake up. Please, please, wakeup.”

Slowly, carefully, his head was shifted onto a soft lap and his thick hair smoothed back from his forehead, yet the supremely comforting and familiar gesture from his childhood felt wrong, too. His mother was rounder than he remembered and smelled of rosewater rather than lemon.

Uneasily, he inched an eyelid open and discovered huge, glistening brown eyes staring anxiously back at him. No, not his mother, but her oldest and dearest friend Jane Forsyth, Countess of Westleigh.

“Aunt Jane?” he mumbled, thoroughly disorientated. “What is goingon?”

“Oh, thank heavens,” she said, tears beginning to spill down her cheeks. “Hush now and rest, sweetheart, there was ah...an…accident. But you are going to be justfine.”

William froze as every instinct he possessed cried foul at the blatant lie. Grown men of fourteen weren’t cosseted like they were still in leading strings when everything was justfine.

Bracing his hands on the rocky, muddied ground, he attempted to sit up. He immediately regretted the action when his head swam and stomach threatened to unleash its contents. Firmly pressing a fist to his lips and swallowing hard, he slowly lifted his head and pinned her with a gaze. “I don’t believeyou.”

“William...”

“Tell me the truth,” he said, trying to sound firm and manly instead of terrified. “What happened?”

Soft-hearted Aunt Jane crumpled immediately. “The innkeeper held us up for a half hour after you left. By the time we got here...I only saw them fleeing.”

Them?

Abruptly, images pounded through his mind. Two demi-masked, black-caped highwaymen appearing out of the trees, firing pistols in the air and frightening the horses. Mama screaming, Father grabbing her hand as the carriage jerked and shook, and luggage flew in all directions. Wheels crunching and snapping as they plunged over a small bank and into a freshly tilled field. The door wrenching open. Cruel hands ignoring his parents’ pleas, dragging him out and away from them. Shouting. Far too much shouting, and more screaming. Cold silver eyes glittering with malice, a Frenchman who reveled in chaos and terror. Mocking laughter and an Englishman’s whisper of...vengeance? Something hard slamming into the side of his head. Utter blackness.

“Aunt Jane,” he whispered, his stomach churning violently again. “Where are Father andMama?”

Torment aged her elegant blonde prettiness before his eyes, and she began to sob as she rocked back and forth.

Horrified, William tried to scramble to his feet, but his gangly limbs were even more uncoordinated than usual, and embarrassingly he fell backward onto his behind like a toddler who hadn’t yet learned to walk properly. Wincing at the burning scrape of broken rocks, he eventually hauled himself up and staggered away from Lady Westleigh. Several feet away, tall, imposing Uncle Andrew stood next to a covered cart and issued orders to grave-faced men. Further along, his longtime friends Gregory and Stephen were determinedly preventing their precocious little cousin Samantha from leaving the family carriage to explore, but he continued past themall.

Across the road a flash of black caught his eye, and a chill raced down his spine at the sight of half a carriage wheel turning in the crisp spring breeze. Teeth chattering, he lurched down the bank, skidding and sliding in the freshly churnedmud.

What greeted him at the bottom would remain imprinted in his memory forever.

A haggard-faced, dark-haired man, cradling a limp auburn-haired woman against his massive chest. And blood. So much blood the air was heavy with the metallic scent as it soaked their clothing, draining and pooling on the rough, lumpy ground besidethem.

“Father!” he screamed, falling to his knees. “Mama!”

As if caught in treacle, Richard Hastings, Marquess of Standish, lifted his head and dark blue eyes stared vacantly into the distance.