Chapter One

Twelve months later . . .

"Thank goodness you're returned, Quinn," the dowager marchioness said, rushing toward the thirteenth Marquis of Ellesmere. "I'd despaired of ever seeing you again. Why, my daughters and I were certain those pagan tribesmen would kill you off and then where would we all be?"

Quinn Fortesque resisted the urge to tell his aunt that if he were dead he probably wouldn't care a whit. He also knew any attempt to educate her on the civility of the Portuguese was futile. Instead, he slowly rose from the mandarin–style desk lodged in the library of Ellesmere House, Number Sixteen Portman Square, in the most important city in the world, and ruthlessly held in check his pagan desire to cut short the false welcome. "I hope I find you in good health, madam? And my cousins?"

"Henrietta and Margaret are well enough, but I fear my nerves will never recover." She sighed as if onstage and coyly offered her hand to him.

He took care to brush his lips on her fingers instead of kissing the air above as he was sure so many other gentlemen did. It brought a blush to the former beauty, just as he had known it would. Those who had had exquisite form only to watch it depart on aged feet were the ladies who appreciated attention more so than those who had never had any beauty to begin with. He offered this kiss, this laurel branch of peace, to the woman who hadn't spared him a thought until the moment of her son's death.

Lady Ellesmere sighed and sank into the low-slung Egyptian settee near the massive fireplace.

Quinn's aunt and uncle had always had a penchant for surrounding themselves with the most