Chapter One

January 29, 1895
Dane House, East Veronaville

Regan Andromache Thebe-Dane drank like a lord and cussed like a sailor. She could spit further than any man she had ever challenged, could pitch a hardball with deadly strength and accuracy, and was the undefeated arm wrestling champion of the tavern on the riverbank. She had once single-handedly sent Antonio Monty to the emergency room and was the only known person to have ever made Albany Norman cry.

Nevertheless, she couldn’t help but tremble slightly as the sounds continued. It’s just the house settling, she told herself once more, It’s just the house settling…

However, she wasn’t convinced; never before had the stairs settled in such perfect, regular succession. There was someone else in the house, and very soon, she would have to admit that to herself.

Very soon came as the bedroom door creaked open, followed by a series of heavy, blue-shifted footsteps.

Though she dared not look, she could feel his eyes upon her, burning through the duvet, her nightgown, her very skin… this was it. This was how she was going to die.

Oh, for fuck’s sake, Regan! she cursed mentally. You aren’t going to prove that old fart Consort right, are you? When you refused to go back to him after they got Cornwall, didn’t he say there was no way a woman was capable of taking care of her own damn self? And didn’t you swear you’d prove otherwise? If you don’t get your ass in gear, then what the hell have the last five years been for? You can’t give the bastard that satisfaction!

“Regan,” the intruder whispered, as if unsure as to whether or not she was awake. He must not have wanted to kill her–no, he probably just wanted to rape her.

But how did he know her name? Confused, she kicked back the duvet and pulled herself out of bed; whoever the hell this rogue was, he wasn’t going to take her easily. No, it had been a while since her last fuck, but there was no way she was desperate enough to just lie back while some jackass shoved her against the mattress and pounded her until her spine snapped. No, she’d lived in her father’s house long enough to know that the last thing she wanted was to be poked and prodded from all angles by some unwelcome party.

“Fuck off,” she snarled, slowly blinking her vision into focus. Whoever it was, he was most certainly male. Maybe it was Antonio, bent on revenge; or maybe it was Albany, who’d always wanted to get her pants. In either case, she hoped she was right–she could take either of those two with one hand tied behind her back.

“Regan!” he addressed her once more. “Regan, it’s me!”

She knew that voice.

“Cornwall!” gasped Regan as she scrambled to her feet, taking in the surprising sight of her long-lost husband. “Mother of Christ! How  in the hell did you escape? We both know you can’t fight worth a shit!”

Cornwall frowned. “Why, hello to you too, dearest.”

“Sorry,” she apologized hastily, reaching out to touch him. “It’s just… well, if you could get out, then why the hell didn’t you come sooner? Don’t you realize what I’ve had to put up with these past five years? Everyone’s gossiping about me. ‘It’s not proper, a woman of that standing, living on her own‘,” she added in an exaggeratedly shrill voice.

Her husband raised an eyebrow. “You mean they’re calling you a woman?”

“Very funny,” Regan scolded, “but whatever. If every God damn status-seeking hussy in Veronaville has to be a bitch about this, then they can kiss my ass and send it flowers.”

“I’d rather reserve that particular duty for myself,” Cornwall laughed as he wrapped his arms around here. “Good Lord, I missed you! I always forget how lucky I am to have a wife whose vulgarity rivals my own!”

“Rivals?” repeated Regan with a grin. “You liar! Yours couldn’t possibly compete! Now, sit down on that bed and tell me exactly how you got out.”

“You aren’t going to believe that I fought my way out, then?” he asked with a grin, making his way to the other side of the bed and settling himself down.

Regan laughed. “Not for a second. Seriously, what happened?”

“I’ll tell you,” Cornwall insisted. “Patience, love; it’s a virtue.”

“You know perfectly well what happened to the only ‘virtue’ I ever had, Cornwall,” she teased him.

He grunted in agreement. “And to think, your poor, oblivious nephew still sleeps on that bed.”

“In my father’s house,” she spat bitterly. “Anyway… your story?”

“Yes, well, you see,” began Cornwall rather hurriedly, “they had me locked up in the silo of that godforsaken farm Isabella Monty inherited, right?”

Regan pursed her lips. “Hmm.”

“‘Hmm‘ indeed. Anyway, I was sitting there, waiting for that boy Mercutio to bring me my supper, and he comes at the same time he always does–only this time, he tells me he’s going to conveniently forget to lock the door.”

Snuggling up to her husband, Regan giggled. “So you needed outside help from a merciful enemy? Oh, you poor, helpless little pansy-ass, you!”

“Call me what you will, my snarling snapdragon,” he purred softly. “Anyway, I picked up some gossip on my way back here, and word on the street says that your little niece Juliette is pretty tight with that Mercutio fellow. Who would’ve thought, though? What an unlikely pair of friends; I hadn’t even thought of those two as living on the same planet before then. I sure hope for Juliette’s sake your father doesn’t find out.”

Regan rolled her eyes. “To hell with my father–if they weren’t so tight, you’d still be rotting in that silo. Good on them, boycotting this whole thing with Patrizio Monty and the rest of the Bourgeoisie.”

Cornwall chuckled appreciatively. “Says the woman who once beat Antonio Monty into submission.”

“Oh, Cornwall!” she sighed. “Cornwall, Cornwall, Cornwall. That little skirmish had nothing to do with that, I assure you. I wouldn’t have laid a finger on that man if he hadn’t made that crack about you not having any balls. And you know, sometimes, I sit back and think to myself, ‘Maybe he was right’.”

“Is that so?” he demanded in a seductive whisper. “In that case, why don’t you give me a chance to dispel your doubts?”

Regan’s eyes narrowed. “Cornwall, I haven’t seen you in five fucking years. It’s four in the morning, and I haven’t slept a wink all night, and Goneril’s having one of her ridiculous parties tomorrow. If you think there’s the slightest chance that I’m going to have sex with you right now…”

“…then you’re absolutely right.”

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