Ruan Bettancourt, the Duke of Cynssyr, intends to marry London's most beautiful debutante. A case of mistaken identity forces him to marry her sister, spinster Anne Sinclair. Before long, he's head-over-heels in love with his wife while Anne is determined to make the best of her unwanted marriage. Can the man society calls "Lord Ruin" convince Anne he's fallen in love in with her?
Cynssyr said abruptly, "Do you recall anything of last night, Miss Sinclair?"
Slowly, Anne forced herself to look. The duke stood unmoving, a stark and beautiful man dressed in unrelieved subfusc but for white shirt and cravat. Mourning, it struck her. He lacked only a crepe band about his arm to complete the resemblance. The chest beneath that mourning black was broad and muscled. A scar ran white and jagged along his collarbone. Vividly, she saw his naked chest, could feel the heat of his skin. Impossible. How could she have another woman's memories? Anne Sinclair could not have seen the duke of Cynssyr without a stitch of clothing.
She was, she realized, staring at him as if he were some sort of oddity, a puzzle to be solved. Those pure green eyes stared back. Eyes of such haunting familiarity she started to shake. Eyes like gems. Even when she turned away, she felt his gaze on her. Impossible, what her memory suggested. Impossible. "Aldreth?"
