It was damned good to be back in London, though the city was perhaps a bit boring without his friends, what with Rothbury still in Cornwall and Rutland about to retire to the country with his wife in anticipation of the arrival of their firstborn. Two years ago, Winter would have happily flirted his way into some widow's bed and that would have been the end of it, but alas he had no such distractions now.

Winter did not want to feel that pang of envy for all his friends, save perhaps Rothbury, but feel it he did. He wanted to settle down, give his mother some grandchildren and he wanted to like his wife. Which was why he found himself at a ball thrown by some Lady or other with some old friends from Cambridge, flocked by debutants and their marriage-minded chaperones and mothers. Though he had not yet announced his intention to find a bride, the sharks were eyeing him with interest, just waiting for him to ask one of their girls to dance. Which in itself was a problem. Most of these girls were, what? Eighteen? Nineteen? Grown women in their own right, but Winter had no wish to take someone a decade his junior as his wife. They'd be stuck for the rest of their lives making inane conversation about the weather and fashions. He repressed a shudder of disgust.

That was not to say Winter did not like women, in fact, the very opposite was true. He absolutely adored women. Short, tall, slender, plump, fair or dark; any libertine worth his salt was indiscriminate and Winter was practically the author of the book on scandalous behavior. He liked their softness, the way their eyelashes fluttered when they were pleased, the way they blushed when they were shy. He liked their teasing and flirtation and the subtlety of their wit. Therein lay the first problem. He liked women and not these chits that were fresh out of the schoolroom. He drew the line at three and twenty and would not look at someone even a millisecond younger.

Now, onto his second problem; he could not seem to muster the faintest bit of interest in anyone save for Seraphina Macleod. His abstinence began some two years ago when he had woken up in bed with four other people and had felt only disgust at the state he was in. He had been unable to remember how indeed he had ended up in that position, and what was more, he had been completely unsurprised. Just a regular Thursday in his books. It was at that point that he realized that he'd stopped enjoying sex, it was just something he did to pass the time. And then, how was it any different than the alcohol? Something he indulged in just because he could? Something he needed more and more of in the search for how it made him feel the first few times?

After that, he found little temptation in taking someone to bed. Indeed, these days he was far more familiar with the shape of his hand than with the body of a woman and he was more than satisfied with the arrangement. In fact, just moments ago, a scandalously dressed widow had all but shoved her bountiful assets in his face while she suggested he might meet her in their hosts' conservatory. He had felt nary a stir, twitch, or smidgen of interest. As had been the case with all women in the last two years until her.

What is the problem with that, one might wonder? Well, it was really a matter of principle. He could not take a woman as his lawfully wedded wife and then find himself unable to-ahem- perform. Or worse still, thinking of someone else while he tupped his wife. Infidelity in any form had no place in his marriage, hypothetical as the prospect was at the moment.

'By God, Win, is that you?' A familiar voice jolted him out of his maudlin thoughts, he turned from his position by the pillar he was leaning against and saw a face he hadn't seen in almost five years. Though his blond hair was cut much shorter than he had kept it when they had been in university, there was no mistaking the playful glint in those grey-green eyes. 'Rather Graham, now, isn't it?'

Winter's face pulled into a genuine smile at the sight of his old fellow from Cambridge; Harrison Windham, the newly minted Earl of Stanhope. 'Harry? By God! When did you come back from America?'

They clasped arms in a brotherly gesture and fell into conversation.

'I came back almost a month ago, as soon as I heard of my brother's declining health. I made it home just in time, too, he passed not a week after.'

'Sorry to hear about the old Earl's passing. I was traveling and was unable to attend the funeral.' Winter bowed his head in apology.

'I keep hearing 'Stanhope' and turning around to search for my brother only to realize that it is me that is being sought out. He came into the title when I was just seven and it never occurred to me that I would inherit because he never had a son.' He shook his head ruefully. The old Earl had in fact been Harry's half-brother, twenty years their senior but in spite of their age difference as well as their different mothers, the old earl had been a rather doting sibling. It was the reason why Harry had sacrificed the life he knew to go to America to find business after his brother lost the majority of his funds on an ill-advised gold mine investment.

'It was the same when my father passed. It took me a year before I could even refer to myself as the Marquess of Graham without feeling strange. Are you relocating to England now?'

'Yes, I shall have to shift the business-'

'Ah, so you two found each other!' Another cheery voice joined them, the Viscount of Carlisle followed closely by Lord James Wimbly, who seemed as though he was already in his cups. With the two additions, his group of Cambridge mates was complete. Save Charlie Montgomery, of course. 'My, all of us together like this certainly brings back some memories.'

Memories Winter wasn't particularly proud of. Which was why he did not like to spend his time with Carlisle and Wimbly anymore. They had never grown out of their university years, while Winter had changed too damn much.

'We certainly had some interesting times.' Harry replied diplomatically.

'Now why the devil are the two of you huddled in the corner like some virginal wallflowers?' Carlisle demanded. 'Come gentlemen, there are drinks to be had and lonely wives to be fucked!'

Case in point.

Harry and Winter shared a glance that said Can you believe these two were among our closest friends at a time?

'I fear those days are behind me.' Harry replied jovially, doing a far better job at masking his annoyance than Winter.

'Ah yes, the ol' parson's trap.' Wimbly shook his head in mock sorrow. At Winter's look of surprise, he added 'Graham wasn't aware? Stanhope here took some inspiration from your chum Rothbury and found himself a Dollar Princess.'

Harry scowled at the unflattering moniker. 'It is not like that. I would have her even if she were penniless.'

'And yet, I am sure those incredibly deep pockets won't hurt the earldom? Nor the gigantic shipping business that is going to be yours once your father-in-law retires?' Wimbly snickered, Harry's displeasure became palpable.

'You know nothing of it, Wimbly.' He snapped.

'Er..Speaking of Lady Rothbury.' Carlisle began in an ill-advised attempt to smooth over the deteriorating mood. He lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. 'I hear she is available again. Her paramour left her for a governess. A perfect time to offer a sympathetic shoulder, wouldn't you say?'

'A shame she's retired back to the country, my mother resides in Hertfordshire and I would have had ample opportunity to indulge myself.' Wimbly supplied.

'Assuming Lady Rothbury wouldn't laugh in your face and tell you to go fuck yourself?' Harry rolled his eyes, and while his tone was teasing, had Winter imagined the steely look in his eye? 'A woman like that wouldn't as much as spit on bastards like you.'

Harry's words spoke of familiarity with his friend's wife. Or was he just reading too much into it?

Carlisle and Wimbly laughed good-naturedly and the conversation shifted, even as a thought took root in his mind and then refused to leave. As Harry began to talk about his plans to renovate his country seat, Winter took the opportunity to confirm his suspicions. 'Say, Stanhope, where is your country residence? Why do I recall it was somewhere near the sea?'

Now Harry's discomfort became palpable, as if reading the subtle inquiry behind the seemingly inane question. His grip tightened on the champagne flute he was holding. 'Cornwall. Near a small town called Marshall Glenn.'

Ah, now that couldn't be a coincidence, could it?

'Ah, Rothbury has an estate there, as well.' He said, keeping his tone conversational and light. 'Have you ever crossed paths with Her Grace? She runs the local orphanage so I imagine you must have met her around town.'

Winter watched Harry turn ashen and then beet red in a damning flush. 'Orphanage, did you say?' He tugged at his cravat as if it were choking him. 'I must confess, I have hardly more than a passing acquaintance with most of my neighbors, I have been in America for the last five years, after all.'

Well, Winter had his answer. And really, why should he care for what Lady Rothbury did with her life? He'd asked as a show of loyalty to Benedict, but had he forgotten that it was in fact Benedict himself that wanted this arrangement with his wife? Whatever was between the Earl of Stanhope and the Duchess of Rothbury was their business.

'I have a suggestion, gentlemen.' Carlisle proclaimed, crossing his fit arms across his chest. 'Since the two of you are acting like nuns, what say we leave and go to Hellfire, instead?'

Ah, the club in the seedy part of the city was an old haunt of theirs. Smuggled drinks, dubious characters, every sort of gambling game one could imagine, and the club's main attraction; the boxing arena in the courtyard where they held exhibition matches between prizefighters.

'Do they have a match today?' Winter thanked God that there was something to do that wasn't entirely mind-numbing.

'Oh yes, both of them are hot favorites for the title this year. If we leave within the hour, we can make it before the match starts.'

The rest of their group made murmurs of agreement and thus the plan for the rest of the night was settled. Hopefully, the matches would last until the wee hours of morning and Winter could go home exhausted enough that he wouldn't have to think about how empty his townhouse had begun to feel.

As it turned out the four of them on horseback made it to the club well before the match had begun, and thus they had time aplenty to spare. While the three of his friends decided to drink and wager a little, Winter excused himself. He did not feel like explaining his sobriety to people who would not understand and consider him silly for such things.

He allowed himself to wander into the courtyard where the match would take place, happy to watch one of the boxers do his warm-ups. As someone who had always enjoyed the sport, he took great pleasure in just observing the sheer ability and peak physical perfection of professionals. The man in the ring was huge. A few inches above Winter's own six feet and at least three stone heavier, he had a hulking brute of a frame that, combined with hair cut very close to his head, made him more suited to marauding Vikings than modern times. He dropped into a low squat, showing a surprising range of motion for a man of his size.

'Yer leaning too heavily on yer left foot, Rick. Bring yer arms up tighter.'

'Yes, sir!' The giant replied with surprisingly cultured tones.

Winter's gaze shifted to the bench right outside the ring, where an aging man was seated, his keen eye assessing his pupil. The man lifted himself off of the bench with the help of a walking stick and walked slowly into the lamp-lit center of the courtyard. He used the walking stick to poke the prizefighter's limbs into position, instructing him along the way. Winter watched with a measure of amusement at the almost fatherly manner of the tutor, though he wondered why a decidedly aged man would be working at his age. Passion or desperation could be the only answers. Winter looked a little closer and decided that the tutor must have been quite the specimen himself in his prime, with wide shoulders and powerful legs despite his age. Winter sat himself on an empty bench and continued to observe.

'I'm going to kill the both of ye!' Snarled a feminine voice from the entrance to the courtyard.

Never in his life had Winter whirled around faster. Walking towards the ring with a determined gait, her lips thinned into a displeased line, scar stretched taut over her skin, and eyes blazing with fury, she looked like an avenging angel. The lamp light did the most fascinating things to her hair, bound in one long braid behind her, some tendrils escaping and framing that face that had been haunting Winter for weeks. The sight of her nearly after a month felt like a bullet to the chest, no less potent than the first.

'Seraphina.' His breath left him in a hoarse whisper. She stormed past him as if he didn't even exist, her cloak flying behind her dramatically.

'Now listen here, lassie-'

'Don't ye dare 'lassie' me, ye wretched old man! Ye stole my horse to go to a gambling den?! Yer nae six and twenty, yer two and sixty for God's sake.'

'Don't blaspheme, now, Phina. And I would say borrowed, not stole.' The prizefighter leaned casually against the ropes around the ring and shot her a half grin. Winter bristled at the intimate use of her name. A pleasure she had denied him.

'I'll punch yer bloody lights out, Rick. Save your charm for your wife.' She seethed at him, as Winter felt his body relax. Stupid, stupid, stupid, this intrinsic connection he felt with her. 'I know Papa would have insisted on coming, but I expected you to have some sense, at least! Just a month ago he collapsed getting himself a glass of water, now you think you can go around to matches like the old days? His heart cannot handle the crowds and the excitement. We are going home.'

'Come now, lassie, we're already here.' Seraphina's father said placatingly. 'Let me stay for the match. With the number of people coming, it will be impossible to get a hack at this time.'

A defiant look passed across her face, and then she flashed a very innocent smile. She batted her eyelashes and said. 'Oh, very well. I shall stay with you, in that case. Make some pace for me on the bench will you, Papa?'

Like the devil, she would! He would put her over his shoulder and get her out of here before the more rowdy patrons began to show, her ability to defend herself be damned!

The twin expressions of horror on the faces of the other two men told Graham they felt the exact same way as he did. A gambling den was no place for a respectable young miss. And definitely no place for a respectable young miss Winter cared about. And like hell was he about to let her go home alone through the seedy streets of east London by herself.

'I can send for my carriage. You needn't trouble with a hack.' He found himself saying. 'I'll also have a groom bring your horse.'

Three pairs of stunned eyes swerved to him. Had no one noticed he was here? How humbling.

'My Lord!' Seraphina exclaimed, flushing a pretty red. She dipped into a quick curtsy, her form no less graceful for her haste. An undeniable delight lit her eyes as she took him in. It was somewhat soothing to know that he was not the only one plagued with this infatuation. That she had not yet forgotten him as he had been unable to forget her. 'My apologies for the scene. And we really wouldn't wish to impose. I shall just hail a hack as soon as we are able.'

'Think nothing of it. I am glad to help.'

The two men eyed him with renewed interest as Seraphina made introductions. 'My father, Mr. Alistair Macleod, and Mr. Rickard Weston.' She then motioned to him. 'The Marquess of Graham. The son of my employer.'

'My Lord.' The prizefight sketched a refined bow, while Alistair Macleod could only manage a respectful incline of his head.

In a short while, they were standing outside the entrance to the club as his carriage pulled up to the front. A groom had fetched the Arabian Rothbury had gifted her, now aptly named Tempest, though the mercurial beast seemed much subdued at the moment. She gave the groom her address as a servant helped her father into the carriage.

'I cannot thank you enough, My Lord.' She sighed, watching her father make himself comfortable in the leather-bound seats. He offered her his hand, helping her into the carriage. Both of them waiting for a second longer than necessary to let go.

'I am merely your humble servant, ma'am.' He sketched an elegant bow and shut the door, hoping to high heaven he could somehow manage to come out of his infatuation because nothing could ever come of it. No matter how much he wished it.

A/N: Oooo, we have a mystery on our hands? Who is Harry? Winter seems to think he was Minerva's lover, do you guys think he's right? 

I'll give you a hint; he didn't come out of nowhere, he HAS been mentioned a few times.