Laurie Benson
The scandal of the season!
For American Katrina Vandenberg, the rules of London society are stifling. So, when a rare moment of solitude at a particularly tedious ball is interrupted, she’s disappointed...until she lays eyes on a very handsome stranger!
Julian Carlisle, Duke of Lyonsdale, is destined for a dull marriage of convenience, and Katrina couldn’t be further from the docile, blue-blooded bride he needs. An affair would be scandalous, but could there be a way for this highly unsuitable woman to become Julian’s perfect duchess after all?
I’ll always be grateful to my wonderful editor, Kathryn Cheshire, for giving me this opportunity and for helping me bring Julian and Katrina into the world. Thanks for your guidance and support. You’re the best! And thank you to everyone at Mills & Boon Historical, especially Linda Fildew, Nic Caws, and Krista Oliver for all that you’ve done for me.
Thanks Courtney Miller-Callihan, for having my back and for just being you.
To the history bloggers and the people who answered my historical questions, thanks for making research fun.
Lori V. and Lisa D., this book might not have been written if it weren’t for the two of you. Thanks for encouraging me to put this story to paper and for not running the other way when I asked you to read it—a number of times. I love you both!
To Jen, Mia, Marnee, and Teri, thanks for riding this roller coaster with me and for being such great friends.
Thanks, Mom, for teaching me that I could do anything if I put my mind to it. To my boys, you mean the world to me. Thanks for never complaining when deadlines have me ordering takeout for dinner. And thank you to my husband for always believing in me and for proving that love at first sight really is possible.
Finally, thank you kind reader for picking up this book. I hope this story makes you smile, and you enjoy this brief armchair vacation in Regency-era London.
Mayfair, London, 1818.
Katrina Vandenberg had come to the conclusion that the ballrooms of London were rather dangerous places.
As she stood under a glittering chandelier in the Russian Ambassador’s ornate drawing room she rotated her sore foot beneath her gown. It didn’t help. Anticipating its tenderness, she held her breath and gingerly lowered her slipper to the red and gold rug.
‘Why does Lord Boreham continue to ask me to dance?’ she groaned as her foot began to throb. ‘Each time we do he stumbles through the steps and blames it on me being American and not knowing the movements. This time he stepped on my foot so many times I stopped counting.’
‘Perhaps he is enamoured with you,’ replied Sarah Forrester, the daughter of the American Minister to the Court of St. James.
‘Perhaps he’s waiting for me to issue a war cry in the middle of the dance floor and wishes to have an excellent view.’
The friends laughed and a number of the finely dressed gentlemen and ladies looked their way. One of them was their hostess, the Russian Ambassador’s wife, Madame de Lieven.
‘I suppose you could wear boots under your gown to protect your feet from clumsy partners,’ Sarah whispered, hiding her amusement behind her fan. ‘Although it would not be very fashionable.’
‘I do not believe even that would help. But perhaps I could pretend the orchestra is too loud and I cannot hear them speak. Then maybe I could avoid listening to them boast about how important they are or prattle on about some ancient relative’s great accomplishment.’ Katrina nodded towards a group of gentlemen. ‘One day I wager one of them will show me his teeth in an attempt to impress me. London would be lovely if it weren’t for the men.’
When they laughed again Madame de Lieven narrowed her eyes and gave them a chastising shake of her head.
Katrina took a deep breath and shifted her gaze. ‘I do believe our hostess is attempting to inform us that ladies in London do not laugh out loud during entertainments such as this.’
How she wished there was somewhere she could go to avoid the constant scrutiny. And that smell! Had someone forgot to bathe?
She rubbed her forehead and a drop of wax hit the embroidered forget-me-nots on her white silk glove.
Evenings like this were always