Excerpt from the Quizzing Glass Gazette, June 30, 1821, the Lady Society column:

Lady Society has been hearing the most delicious tales. Dare I say rumor has it that Lord Kincade—a Scottish earl—and his two brothers have recently come to Bath and are setting the fans aflutter and the matrons atwitter? I'm tempted to suggest matches for these Scottish rogues, but then again, if I know anything about Scots, they will take what they want, when they want it. Ladies of Bath, if you desire one of them for a husband, I wish you the best of luck!

Hampshire, June, 1821

The wild Highland lord grasped the woman in his arms, pressing his lips to hers. Wind tore at her skirts as they stood upon the highest point of the heather—covered hill, embracing each other. There was nothing so wondrous as this, nothing so fulfilling as a perfect kiss…

"A perfect kiss?" Joanna Lennox glared at the last page of her Gothic novel, Lady Jade's Wild Lord. "There is no such thing as a perfect kiss." A perfect kiss was a myth. She was sure there wasn't, because if there were, she would have been kissed by now and known that, wouldn't she? Yet here she was at twenty years old, unkissed, uncourted, and utterly alone.

She stared into the depths of the fireplace in her library, her heart empty. After three arduous seasons in London, she was a failure as far as the standards of the marriage mart were concerned. The rumor mill had begun to spin tales of why she was still single. London society loved to mock a woman who could not catch a man, especially a woman with a large dowry. Desperate men would overlook any number of problems with a woman so long as her dowry was bountiful.

So what is it that I lack that sends even fortune hunters running to the hills?

It wasn't that she hoped to be married for the sake of marriage itself, or to stop those silly peahens from gossiping. She was an independent, intelligent, opinionated woman. Yet something was missing within her, some grand secret that only someone in love was privy to. At least, if the books she had read were any indication. She wanted to love and be loved by a man, but she knew just how rare love matches were.

She tried to focus on the book in her lap as she pulled her tartan shawl tight around her shoulders. The library in her old country home was a little chilly, even with the fire lit. She usually could lose herself in a book, but not tonight. Her older brother, Ashton, had fallen ill with the grippe, and his fiancée, Rosalind, was tending to him. But the house was quiet, an awful quiet that lent itself to restless nights and melancholy thoughts.

Joanna had witnessed Ashton banish the depths of his coldness and shed the burdens of the past so that he might embrace a warm future with his bride—to—be. It was clear that her brother loved Rosalind dearly, even if he was too damn stubborn to admit it.

Will someone ever love me like that? She blew out a frustrated breath. It wasn't as though she hadn't tried to find the perfect gentleman. She'd been charming, polite, and endearing. Men loved to engage her in conversation, yet no man came to call on her, and none sent flowers. There was not one flicker of hope that she was to be courted.

The worries plagued her more and more, leaving her sleepless at night and irritable during the day. But she wasn't the sort of woman to sit and mope, which was why she found her current mood most irritating. Joanna knew she ought to be doing more to distract herself from these doldrums.

Perhaps the Society of Rebellious Ladies would appreciate another member.

Joanna giggled at the thought and turned to the last page in her book. That would at least keep her distracted from her unsuccessful husband hunt. The society was a secretive and increasingly sought—after group for young ladies of the ton, and yet joining it was also considered scandalous—which was part of its appeal to those who were members. Rumors suggested that the Society was always in the midst of schemes, some of which even graced the pages of the Quizzing Glass Gazette, and they seemed quite happy to be off on adventures of their own without men shadowing them. Their husbands hadn't the faintest idea that the balls, teas, and dinners were often a ruse for the Society's activities.

Since Joanna had no man who was eager to shadow her, she would be a perfect candidate to join the Society. They had been known to accept single ladies, married women, and even declared spinsters among their ranks. Each member of the Society had to possess the characteristics of strength of will and purpose, and they understood that loyalty to the other members was paramount.

A sudden creak of the wood floor startled her. No one should be about at this hour, yet there were any number of reasonable situations in which someone might be. She was still up, after all. Slowly, she peered around the edge of her chair.

A tall, broad—shouldered man in black trousers and a long black shirt stood in the doorway, staring at her. His eyes were a mercurial grayish—blue, and intensely focused on her. For a moment, Joanna was arrested by the sight of his chiseled jaw and aquiline nose, his dark hair a tad too long to be considered respectable.

A splash of clarity hit her. A strange man had just walked into the library close to midnight—and she was there alone. She kept calm. If she needed help, she could cry out. A servant would hear her, surely.

"Who are you?" she asked. He wasn't one of her brother's friends. Ashton belonged to an infamous band of English peers known in some circles as the League of Rogues. She knew nearly all of his friends, as well as the members of the League, and this man was neither. So who was he?

"It doesn't matter who I am. Who are you?" His voice was low, silky, yet the brogue was thick enough that she knew he had to be Scottish. Was he perhaps tied to Ashton's fiancée? She was Scottish.

"I'm Joanna Lennox." She closed her book and set it aside with her blue tartan shawl on the chair as she stood.

"I know that clan," the man said, noticing the tartan. "MacLeod. Are you Scottish?"

"What? Oh no, my family has relatives who are, but not me." She thought of how very not Scottish she was, and the idea amused her. She had to admit she'd often dreamt of living in the Highlands, not caring a whit what London society or its damned rules thought about her. She put those thoughts aside to focus on the stranger in black. She came closer, wanting to see him better. Logically, she knew she ought to be shouting for help, but she didn't feel as though she was in any danger. "You didn't answer me. Who are you?"

The man glanced about, clearly struggling to think of an answer.

"I…" He hesitated, and then his eyes narrowed. "Is Lady Melbourne here?"

"Why yes, she's—wait a moment." Joanna knew then why she was so fascinated by him. There was something acutely familiar about his eyes, that same serious shade of grayishblue. And the way he frowned was so like Rosalind, who was quite a serious woman.

"Are you one of her brothers? Did you come down for the wedding?" That had to be it. In all the excitement of her brother's unexpected engagement and then his sudden illness, they must have forgotten to tell her that Rosalind's three brothers had been invited from Scotland for the wedding.

"Aye. I received a letter from my sister and came down to attend the wedding. I only just arrived and didn't wish to disturb the household." He widened his stance, the move strangely aggressive. Joanna had the sudden concern that he might try to grab her, but that was silly. He was Rosalind's brother, not some villain, even if he was dressed like a highwayman. Perhaps he'd only just arrived and wasn't prepared to meet her, which would explain his interesting choice of clothing. He would be exhausted from travel and need time to rest, and here she was judging him as though he was a man sent to cause trouble.

"Oh dear, you must be tired after such a long ride. Have the servants taken your things to your chambers?"

"Thank you, my lady, I've already been seen to. I was just looking for a room to warm up in a bit before going to bed." His gaze searched hers, and she had a suspicion he was expecting her to challenge him, but she had no reason to. He was Rosalind's brother and quite welcome here.

"Well then, come sit by this fire. I just finished my novel and was planning to retire soon. I'd be happy to lend it to you—if you enjoy novels, that is." She returned to her chair and picked up her book, then came back and placed it in his hands. "It's one of my favorites."

He stared at the title. "Lady Jade's Wild Lord? Thank you."

It was an L. R. Gloucester novel, a torrid Gothic novel, and he was staring at it with a reverent expression that tugged at her heart. Like a man who hadn't held a book in his hands in years.

"I'm afraid I'm still at a loss as to your name. Which one of Rosalind's brothers are you?"

His storm cloud colored eyes darted around the room before they came back to her. "How do you know about us?"

"Oh, she told me all about the three of you. Let me guess…" She tapped her chin, grinning. "Are you Aiden, Brodie, or Brock? I shall guess…Aiden."

He snorted. "Like hell. Do I look like some young pup?"

He certainly didn't. He looked more like a Scottish Highlander out of her girlish fantasies.