But it wasn’t their good looks that stopped women in their tracks. It was the famous Stafford eyes. For as long as anyone could remember, Stafford men had been blessed with eyes the color of clearest emeralds. One could get lost in those eyes—they were windows on emotion, glittering with humor, flashing with anger, fiery with passion.

These were eyes that wreaked havoc on the women around them—unless the woman in question was a sister. In which case, they served to simply exasperate.

“Ah. Talk of the Devil.”

Alex moved farther into the room and perched herself against the edge of the chaise, leveling her brothers with a cool look. “What has you three so amused?”

“Just the fact that, even on our most difficult of days, we have never infuriated Mother the way you seem to with virtually no effort. An admirable trait, to be sure.” William Stafford, already the Marquess of Weston and heir to the dukedom, spoke wryly from across the room.

“She merely holds you three to a different standard, Will. She manages her expectations of you—a trio of mediocrity. Aren’t you three, as gentlemen, supposed to stand when a lady enters?” Alex was beginning to regret returning to the sitting room.

Christopher shot his sister a questioning glance. “A lady entered?” At his sister’s withering look, his face broke into a broad grin as he made himself more comfortable in his chair. “Come now, Allie…just because you’re about to have your first season doesn’t mean you have to lose your sense of humor.”

“On the contrary, Kit, my sense of humor is very much intact.” She shot a conciliatory look at Vivi and Ella and spoke frankly: “You’re simply not that amusing.”

A deep, rumbling laugh came from the doorway. “She has a point, Kit.”

Alex spun around to face the newcomer with surprise, followed by delight. “No one told me you were back! Of course…with this lot”—she nodded to her brothers, none of whom seemed moved by the new arrival—“I shouldn’t be surprised.”

Gavin Sewell moved across the room toward her to bow low over the back of her hand. “It would seem that I am indeed back…and that you’re still making as much trouble as you were the last time I saw you.” His eyes met hers with a smile.

“Not on purpose,” Alex defended herself. “How am I supposed to remember all the silly rules of the season?”

Ella piped in practically, “In fairness, it seems not wearing your first ball gown in the front sitting room in the middle of the day is a fairly simple rule to remember.”

Gavin chuckled over Alex’s glare, unable to resist teasing her. “It does seem that way, although never having had to wear a ball gown myself, I can’t guarantee I wouldn’t be confused as well.”

“It’s a good thing, too. I’m not sure you’d survive the corset.”

He cocked an eyebrow in response to Alex’s retort and moved to greet Ella and Vivi. As Gavin bowed over the backs of their hands, Vivi was the first to speak. Her “Good afternoon, my lord Blackmoor” surprised Alex.

“Oh,” said Alex quietly, remembering her manners and falling into a curtsy, “apologies, my lord, your new title slipped my mind.”

Gavin turned back toward Alex, surprised. “No need to stand on ceremony, Alex. I forget that I’m the earl myself most of the time. I cannot seem to get comfortable with the idea that I carry the title now. Besides, I don’t see how it would change much. Nick has been an earl your whole life and that doesn’t seem to change the way you treat him.” He shot her an odd smile and nodded in the direction of Alex’s middle brother.

Nick, as always, was quick to chime in. “That’s right! You lot have never respected my title,” he said, puffing out his chest in a false air of pompousness. He added a thickly arrogant tenor to his blustering. “Why should Blackmoor get any respect? I’ve been the Earl of Farrow since before you were born and it doesn’t earn me an ounce of esteem!”

Everyone laughed and, with that, the awkwardness of the situation had disappeared. Gavin moved to sit by Alex’s brothers, throwing himself into their conversation about a horse auction they planned to attend the next week.

Alex rejoined Vivi and Ella, who resumed their discussion about a novel that the three girls had recently read, Mansfield Park, but she couldn’t shake the odd feeling she’d had during the scene that had just unfolded. She hadn’t missed the fact that, even when Nick was making light of his own title, he’d casually referred to Gavin as Blackmoor—the name that was now rightfully his, along with the earldom and all its privileges—as though it were the most natural thing in the world. But when she’d seen him in the doorway, Alex hadn’t even registered that Gavin was any different, that anything had changed. With one ear on the girls’ discussion, Alex stole a glance at the object of her thoughts.

Gavin’s father had been her own father’s closest boyhood friend—something that was bound to have happened, considering the fact that Blackmoor and Stafford lands bordered each other both in the Essex countryside and in London, where the townhouses shared expansive back gardens on Park Lane. Proximity and age had made Gavin a natural companion of the Stafford sons. The four had climbed trees together, been schooled together, and wreaked general havoc together.

For all the afternoon teas, suppers, and dinners that Gavin had been a part of, Alex thought of him as a fourth brother, equal parts exasperating older sibling and wonderful protector. When, at the age of seven, she had climbed a tree in the back garden trying to emulate her brothers and become stuck in its branches, it was thirteen-year-old Gavin who had come to rescue her—talking her down to a low branch and convincing her to let go and trust him to catch her when she fell. Of course, once it was over, Gavin went back to teasing her; he had never let her forget that she “climbs trees like a girl.”

To her surprise, she had missed him in the past few months, and the short time had changed him. She had seen him last in January, three months ago, at the funeral of his father, the late earl. The earl had died tragically from a fall from his horse on a rocky cliffside path on the Blackmoor estate in Essex. The entire ton had mourned the loss of Gavin’s father—a wonderful, intelligent man who had been liked and admired by all.

Alex could remember watching Gavin at the funeral as he stood with sadness in his eyes, strong and silent next to his devastated mother. She had wanted to go to him, to speak to him, but in the crush following the funeral and in the days thereafter, she’d been unable to find a moment to tell him how sorry she was for his loss—not that those words would have held much comfort for a son who had lost his father so unexpectedly.

Now, as she watched him speak with her brothers, she noted his thinner, more serious face, the deeper set of his tired eyes. She was happy he was out of official mourning, that he had joined them in London for the season, and that he seemed to be surviving the shift from unburdened heir to earl, complete with all the responsibilities that came with the title. Yet she couldn’t help but wonder just how much of a toll the last few months had taken.

As though he sensed her thoughts, Gavin turned and met her gaze. Several seconds passed and he winked, as if to assure her that her worries were unnecessary. One side of his mouth raised in a lopsided smile, he turned back to her brothers, and Alex refocused on Ella and Vivi’s conversation, pushing her questions to the back of her mind for the time being, and promising herself she’d find a moment alone with him later.

“I didn’t find it nearly as interesting as Pride and Prejudice,” Vivi was saying.

“Of course you didn’t! I’ve never read Pride and Prejudice’s equal,” said Ella, passionately. “But better or worse is really irrelevant, Vivi. What’s most tragic about this book is that, even now, after publishing three wonderful books—each one easily as brilliant as anything written by a man—the author cannot reveal her true identity for fear of repercussions! It’s inexcusable that, as a society, we would show such a devastating lack of progress.”

“It is disconcerting. But it cannot go on forever,” Vivi pointed out. “This particular ‘Lady’ has garnered too much celebrity to remain anonymous.”

“One can only hope that’s true,” Ella said, turning to look at Alex. “What did you think of the book, Alex?”

Before she had a chance to answer, the conversation was interrupted by Will’s loud and exaggerated groan of anguish from across the room. “We can’t go to the theater that night. It’s Scamp’s coming-out at Almack’s. Mother will have our heads if we’re not there.”

Hearing the odious nickname her brothers used for her, she stopped the girls’ talking with a raised hand and looked over at the boys. “I’m in the room, Will, in case you’d forgotten. And trust me—I don’t find the thought of an evening at Almack’s any more entertaining than you do.”

“Nonsense,” interrupted Nick. “All girls love the idea of Almack’s. They spend the majority of their early years envisioning exactly what their first evening there will be like. They go all starry-eyed about the ruddy place, imagining just who will be the first man to steal their hearts.”

“Not these girls,” piped in Ella.

“I, for one, have no interest at all in having my heart stolen,” Alex interjected, ire rising.

Gavin leaned back in his chair and studied the trio of girls, taking note of Alex’s rising temper. “To be honest, Nick, I’d be surprised to hear these three speaking of having their hearts stolen…with an attitude like this…I’m guessing this lot is much more interested in who will be the first man to have his heart stolen—they don’t seem the wall-flower type.”

Alex exploded in irritation. “Why is it that men believe that all women care to think about is the trappings of romance and love? You really don’t consider the possibility that there’s anything more to us, do you?”

The boys looked at each other and turned to the girls with expressions that clearly articulated the answer to her question—rendering words unnecessary.

“Fools,” Alex mumbled under her breath. “In actual fact, gentlemen, I think we’d all much prefer to steer clear of heart stealing of any kind, victim or perpetrator,” Alex continued. “Of course, you lot wouldn’t understand that. You’re never going to be forced into dancing with some namby-pamby so your mothers can feel better about your marriage prospects.”

Will snorted in laughter. “Spoken like someone who has never been to a ball with our mother. I promise you, Alex, as difficult as she can be with you, she’s just as impossible with us. The duchess wants a wedding…any wedding will do.”

Gavin joined in. “I second that. Last season our mothers aligned against me—I thought for sure I was done for. I danced scores of quadrilles with any number of desperate young ladies before I realized it would be smart for me to beg off attending balls altogether.” His tone turned thoughtful. “I had planned on doing the same this year…but seeing Alex take London by storm just might be entertaining enough to drag me to a society gathering or two.”

“Be careful what you ask for, Blackmoor,” Nick interjected. “It is I who has been forced to play partner to her during her dancing lessons. She’s not the most graceful of ladies.”

“Nor the lightest. Mind your toes, chap.” Kit, as usual, delivered his barb with an impish grin thrown in the direction of an increasingly irritated Alex.

With a chuckle, Will interjected, “Ah, well, as brothers, we can rest easy from the fate of Alex’s clumsiness. We’ll never have to dance with her again. Wednesday evening, she shall be loosed upon the men of London. I’m sure someone in the mix won’t mind partnering her.”

With an exasperated groan, Alex leveled her gaze at the men in the room. “Well, I console myself with this: No matter who I end up having to dance with, he can’t be more boorish than you three oafs. Lord save your future wives.”

A noisy truce fell upon the group, and the conversation turned to the upcoming season and the ever-present gossip that would be the talk of the ton in the coming weeks: who had eloped with whom while away from town for the winter; which notorious rakes were on the hunt for wives this season; which balls were certain to be filled to the brim with the brightest stars of the town. As the conversation went on, Alex noticed that Gavin became more and more quiet, retreating into himself. She was not surprised when he stood to excuse himself and leave the house. No one took notice of the fact that she followed him out of the room.

In the wide hallway of Worthington House, Alex placed a hand on her friend’s arm. Gaining his attention, she asked quietly, “Are you well, my lord?” He noticed the caution in her words.

Meeting her clear emerald gaze, the corner of his mouth lifted in a half smile. He reached out and tapped her chin with his finger—a brotherly gesture he’d been performing for most of her life—and said wryly, “No need to walk on egg-shells, Minx. I’m fine.” He redirected his gaze to some faraway point and continued, “It feels good to be back in London…away from Essex and all that comes with it.” He returned his attention to her. “And with you about to have your first season”—his half smile turned into a rakish grin—“I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else…I’m eager for the fireworks to begin.”

Alex didn’t miss the change in topic. She shook her head as though rejecting the whole idea of a season and turned a sympathetic look on Gavin. “My lord…if you should ever need to talk…about anything…I am here…I hope you know that.”