No one's ever expected much from Dalton Irving, the reserved, sheltered, and bookish heir to the family fortune. So in order to secure their place in London's society, the Irvings have arranged for Dalton to marry the brother of a viscount. A man who comes from a family with a title and with quite the scandalous reputation. A man Dalton doesn't know. A man who's very publicly announced that he doesn't want to get married, least of all to Dalton, right in the middle of their engagement ball. In an attempt to flee whispered words and sudden gossip and unexpected hurt from venomous words, Dalton finds comfort from the very last person he would have expected -- the wry, reclusive, and unsocial Edward Whitman, Duke of Wellingham. Edward Whitman doesn't like most people on his best days. They're dull and predictable and care only about money and status. Tonight, however, is the engagement ball for his best friend's brother, so he'll make an appearance to assure the night's success even if the idea of anyone marrying young Dalton Irving puts a strange ache in the pit of his stomach. But after Dalton's intended makes a mess of the ball, Edward suddenly finds himself alone with the young man, drawn to his wide-eyed curiosity and kindhearted generosity, his rambling and odd musings. Neither of them can imagine what this evening has in store for anyone, and all it takes is one night in London to change everything.

One Night in London: Dalton and Edward

“I can help.” The words popped from Dalton’s mouth. A blunder. Words spoken without thought. Exactly what his mother didn’t want. He flushed when three pairs of eyes fell on him. “I mean, well…I’ve never practiced medicine, but, um, I’ve read—”


“Dalton, hush.” The command landed like a slap to the face. Quick and harsh. “You can help by making yourself scarce. Just stay out of the way.” She headed back into the ballroom. Said, before she left, “I’m going to find your father. Stay out of trouble, please?”


She was gone, lost within the throngs of the crowd, before Dalton even had the chance to feel hurt. Back in the ballroom, Dr Wilcox, wiping sweat off her rich brown skin with the back of her arm, knelt by Mr Herron. Someone offered him a sip of brandy. Young gentlemen were helping to calm young ladies. Murmurs carried over their heads, the heart of London’s finest company a pulse of nerves mixed with excitement.


Chapter 13