I take quill in hand to warn you of the inaccurate picture hinted at in this very tome of my modest self. A poor widow, I returned to England eager to take my place in the ton, only to find myself shunned by all. My one choice was to marry again, and who can chastise me for picking a groom who combined those attributes—wealth, a title, and good looks—that would ensure my utter happiness.
I know you will understand my frustration when Alasdair McGregor, the manly personification of those attributes, cruelly refused to be the answer to my problems. In fact, I was forced by Dare's obstinacy to take extreme action—the faulty codpiece that led to our marriage, the wedding that was literally a circus, and, of course, the time I shot Dare to cheer him up.
Not even an annoyance such as the loss of Dare's fortune could stand between me and what I wanted most: the love of my husband. I am confident that you will disregard comments from those jealous ladies who refer to my having trapped Dare into an unwanted union, and instead look beneath the obvious to read the true story of our love.
