Prologue
London, Spring 1814
‘Mr Xavier Campion,’ Lady Devine’s butler intoned in a baritone voice.
‘Adonis is here!’ gasped one of the young ladies standing near Phillipa Westleigh. The others shared furtive smiles.
Phillipa knew precisely who her friends would see when their gazes slipped towards the doorway. A young man tall and perfectly formed, with broad shoulders, a narrow waist, and muscled limbs. His hair would be as dark as the ebony keys on a pianoforte and longer than fashionable, but an excellent frame for his lean face, strong brow, sensitive mouth.
The young ladies had been tittering about him the whole evening. Would he come to the ball? Could they contrive an introduction? He’d been the main topic of conversation since they’d discovered him at the opera the night before. ‘He is an Adonis!’ one had proclaimed and the name stuck.
Phillipa had not attended the opera that night, but heard before all of them that he’d come to town. She, too, glanced to the doorway.
Clad in the formal red coat of the East Essex infantry, Xavier Campion looked as magnificent as a man could look in regimentals.
He scanned the room, his brilliant blue eyes searching until reaching Phillipa. His lips widened into a smile and he inclined his head before pivoting to greet Lord and Lady Devine.
‘He smiled at us!’ cried one of Phillipa’s friends.
No. He’d smiled at her.
Phillipa’s cheeks flushed.
Did he remember her? They’d been childhood friends in Brighton during the summers, especially the summer when she fell and suffered her injury.
Phillipa’s hand flew to her cheek, to where the jagged scar marred her face. Not even the clever feather her mother insisted be attached to her headpiece could hide the disfigurement.
Of course he remembered her. How many scar-faced girls could be known to handsome Xavier Campion?
She swung away, while the others giggled and whispered to each other. She heard their voices, but could not repeat a word any of them spoke. All she could think was how it might be if her appearance were different, if her right cheek were not branded with a jagged red scar. How she wished her complexion was as unflawed as her friends’. Then she could merely have a pretty ribbon threaded through her hair instead of the silly headpiece with its obvious feather. She wished just once Xavier Campion could look upon her and think her as beautiful as he was handsome.
Her companions suddenly went silent and a masculine voice spoke. ‘Phillipa?’
She turned.
Xavier stood before her.
‘I thought that was you.’ He’d noticed her scar, he meant. ‘How are you? It has been years since I’ve seen you.’
The other young ladies stared in stunned disbelief.
‘Hello, Xavier,’ she managed, keeping her eyes downcast. ‘But you have been at war. You have been away.’ She dared glance up to his face.
His smile made her heart twist. ‘It is good to be back in England.’
One of her friends cleared her throat.
Phillipa’s hand fluttered to her cheek. ‘Oh.’ She looked from Xavier to the pretty girls around her. It was suddenly clear why he had approached her. ‘Let me present you.’
When the introductions were complete the other young ladies surrounded him, asking him clever questions about the war, where he’d been and what battles he’d fought.
Phillipa stepped back. She’d served her purpose. Her introductions made it possible for him to ask any of them to dance. She imagined their minds turning, calculating. He was only the younger son of an earl, but his looks more than made up for a lack of title. And he was reputed to have a good income.
Her friends were solidly on the marriage mart. They’d all been bred to hope for the perfect betrothal by the end of their first Season. Phillipa’s hopes had quickly become more modest and certainly did not include snaring the most handsome and exciting young man in the room. Not even ordinary eligible gentlemen paid her the least attention. Why should Xavier Campion?
In Brighton, when she’d been a young, foolish child, she’d been his companion. Although a few years older, he played children’s games with her. He filled buckets at the water’s edge with her and built castles out of the pebbles on the beach. They’d chased each other through the garden of the Pavilion and pressed their faces against its windows, peeking at the grandeur inside. Sometimes when they were at play, she’d stop and stare, awestruck at his beauty. Many a night she’d fall asleep dreaming that some day, when she was grown, Xavier would ride in like a prince on horseback and whisk her away to a romantic castle.
Well, she was grown now and the reality was that no man wanted a young lady with a scar on her face. She was eighteen years old and it was past time to put away such childhood fancies.
‘Phillipa?’ His voice again.
She turned.
Xavier extended his hand to her. ‘May I have the honour of this dance?’
She nodded, unable to speak, unable to believe her ears.
Her friends moaned in disappointment.
Xavier clasped her hand and led her to the dance floor as the orchestra began the first strains of a tune Phillipa easily identified, as she’d identified every tune played at the balls she’d attended.
‘The Nonesuch’.
How fitting. Xavier was a nonesuch, a man without equal. There were none such as he.
The dance began.
Somehow, as if part of the music, her legs and feet performed the figures. In fact, her step felt as light as air; her heart, joy-filled.
He smiled at her. He looked at her. Straight in her face. In