Chapter One

Nathanial Hardinge, The Duke of Norfolk, was not usually in the habit of receiving visitors before noon, a fact his butler knew well. Mornings were opportunities for him to rise, breakfast in comparative peace, and read his newspaper before the demands of the world took hold.

He was unprepared, therefore, to receive his mother, Her Grace, the Dowager Duchess of Norfolk at the tender time of half past ten. She, accompanied by his three older sisters, swept into the room like the proverbial ships, their sails fully extended.

The Duke laid down his newspaper. "Mama," he said, regarding that lady with a frown. "It is not yet eleven."

The Duchess, an imposing woman for whom age was an inconvenient and oft-disregarded truth, sat. His three sisters followed suit, and all four bosoms swelled in what he could only presume was indignation. "Well!" his mother said.

"Elinor," he said to his eldest sister, nodding at her. "Cassandra. Penelope. As you have all three stirred outdoors at such an early hour, I can only assume it must be a matter of great importance. Tell me, has someone died?"

"Don't be ridiculous, Nathanial!" Elinor said, plucking at her shawl. At thirty-seven, she had not fully lost her beauty, but five children and the iniquities of age had stolen much of her sweetness. "It is hardly early."

The Duke merely stared at her before turning to Cassandra, who at thirty-three, had all the roundness of an expecting woman. " Has someone died, Cass?"

"The mourning period for your father ended a month ago," his mother said.

"And as you can see." He gestured at himself. "I am not in mourning."

"Don't be so provoking," Cassandra snapped. "You know we're here to discuss your forthcoming marriage."

"How intriguing." The Duke rose and strode to the fireplace so he could better survey his family. All looked at him with ire in the same grey eyes he had inherited. "I was not aware I had committed to the act. With whom will this event take place?"

His mother didn't scowl—she never did anything so uncouth—but she allowed her dark brows to descend forbiddingly. "You know as well as I do that there are plenty of eligible young ladies available. Why, the Earl of Canterbury has a daughter out this Season."

"Lady Rosetta?" The flash of a smile lightened his face. "A pretty child, but I have no interest in schoolroom conversation."

"Perhaps, then, Lady Regina Bolton?" Penelope suggested. Closest in age to the Duke at thirty, she was—or had been—the sister he was most disposed to confide in. Until, of course, this rather distressing betrayal.

"Lady Regina is older, I grant you, but she has a hooked nose. "

"Nathanial!" Elinor said, caught between amusement and irritation. "Don't be so crude."

"Let me understand you," Nathanial said, resting a hand against the mantlepiece. This was a meeting he had expected for quite some time, but he had not suspected all his sisters would take up arms against him. "You would have me marry any young lady, no matter her appearance, for what purpose?"

"As the Duke of Norfolk, it is essential you have an heir," his mother said irritably. "You have no brothers, and you know Montague is the next in line to inherit."

Nathanial's lips tightened. He had no particular desire to talk about his marriage prospects, but he had still less desire to discuss his cousin. "Montague is away on the Continent, Mama, and I think it unlikely he return for quite some time."

"So you say," his mother said, "but he has the unfortunate habit of arriving where he is least wanted."

"And he is not wanted here," Penelope added. Her hands fluttered anxiously in her lap. Before she married Lord Peterborough, she had fancied herself in love with Montague Radcliffe. And perhaps with an eye to inheriting, he had encouraged her affections.

To Nathanial, that was not the worst thing Montague had done, but for the rest of his family, it was perhaps his greatest transgression. He released a long breath. "Montague poses no threat to us. I will ensure it."

"And if," his mother enquired, "you should die without issue? You are the only male in the family, save for Montague, and I can guarantee he is eager to take the title and your father's wealth."

"It is my wealth now," Nathanial said irritably. "And my title. If you all recall, Montague killed a man in a duel and was forced to flee to France, where he has been these past seven years. I have not so much as received a line from him. Society has forgotten his existence, and my title is safe." He held their gazes, one at a time. "Your requirements I find a wife are somewhat precipitous. I am hardly on my deathbed."

Penelope swallowed. "Neither was Father."

"He suffered from apoplexy," Nathanial said, gentling his voice. Their father had been a kindly man, and his death had shook the family. Including, although he would never admit it, Nathanial. He had not thought he would inherit the title, and all the responsibilities it entailed, so soon . A wife would be yet another shackle.

In time, he would be prepared for that. But Montague, of all people, was not the man to force his hand.

"You are almost thirty and a duke to boot," Elinor said. "You have responsibilities."

"I am twenty-eight and have been Duke less than a year," Nathanial countered. "And, might I add, I have seen no sign of Montague."

His mother sniffed. "Nevertheless, a marriage is extremely important for a man in your position. It is expected."

Nathanial, by nature, did not consider himself overly irresponsible. He had, after all, done his duty by his title and his estate, and handled any number of business matters since he was abruptly made Duke. But this was too far.

Penelope held out a hand to him. "Marriage is the most felicitous of states. Mama wants to see you marry so you may have an heir, but I just want to see you happy."

"Then I shall be sure to marry for love," he said dryly, taking her hand and squeezing it. There was little to no chance he might do so, but if his family was convinced he was searching for the girl of his dreams, perhaps his mother may let up.

"Have you considered Lady Isabella?" she demanded, fixing him with a glare.

Or perhaps not.

Seeing it would be unprofitable to argue, Nathanial took a seat and listened to his mother list every eligible girl currently in London, noting their various accomplishments, beauty, and family name.

"For of course," his mother added, "her family is important. This is an alliance, Nathanial."

"I thought you wished me to marry for love?"

"You may do both."

Nathanial tapped his fingers against his thigh as he cast a glance at his clock. His policy when it came to his family was that visits could not last more than an hour. Five minutes before they were due to exceed this arbitrary time-limit, he rose. "Grateful as I am you have chosen to come all this way to lecture me," he said, "but I'm afraid this is all the time I have to spare you."

"I have invited all eligible young ladies to the Norfolk ball next week," his mother said. "I expect you to consider your position carefully."

"I presume I am not expected to make a choice by next week?"

His mother's sternness only deepened at his flippancy. "I would hope you at least make your preference plain."

Elinor also rose, smoothing down the rose-patterned muslin she wore. "You know it's the best thing for the family if you marry soon and well."

Penelope took his hand again. "You must overcome this flippancy, this passivity, if you are to find love," she urged, looking up into his face. "It does not come looking for you."

A relief, in Nathanial's opinion.

"And as the Duke," Cassandra said, "your obligation is first and foremost to the family."

" Even at eight-and-twenty." With that forbidding statement, his mother surged from the room. His sisters followed, Penelope throwing him a sympathetic glance as she did, and the door closed behind them. Nathanial stretched his long legs before the fire with a groan .

It was inevitable that he would eventually have to choose a wife. His mother was right about one thing: without children, Montague posed a threat. Marriage, perhaps, would be a revenge of kinds, but that could wait, at least until Montague had returned. Until then, he would continue as he had, enjoying the freedoms he was currently at liberty to enjoy.

As the eldest of two daughters, Lady Theodosia Beaumont was expected to marry well. As her father's estate was heavily encumbered, she was expected to marry richly . These were two unavoidable truths of her station, and if she secretly dreamt of a handsome gentleman to sweep her off her feet, she did not expect to marry for love. Such was the fate of a poorly dowered lady.

She did not consider it reasonable, however, for the rich and eligible gentleman in question to not possess teeth.

Lord Weston was, she estimated, in his fifties, and he had not aged gracefully; jowls wobbled as he talked and broken veins were scattered across his nose. He also appeared to be missing three teeth. Theodosia had counted them over the course of their conversation thus far. Two silver and one gold. The gold was placed so prominently in his mouth that she suspected it was supposed to attest to his wealth.

As far as she was concerned, it merely attested to his age. Young men did not suffer from golden teeth.

He leant forwards, shaking hands clinking the china cup he held. If he toppled over and died in her drawing room, would she be held responsible? And would it, more pertinently, affect her hopes of making a match ?

"Do you like to ride?" he asked, and Theodosia was assailed both by the foulness of his breath and the unfortunate image of the Earl attempting to throw himself on a horse.

"No," she said, and thought she saw a flicker of relief in his eyes. "I mean—yes. I love to ride. Do I not, Annabelle?"

Her sister, sequestered by her mother at the other end of the room, looked alarmed to be addressed in such a way. Especially considering the question at hand was a direct falsehood.

"I, er—" Annabelle flushed. At eighteen, this was her first Season, and she still became tongue-tied before gentlemen, regardless of their physical prowess.

"So you see," Theodosia said, turning back to the Earl with as insipid a smile as she could muster, "I simply love to ride. Any form of exercise, in fact. Walking, riding, walking." She quickly realised she had run out of exercises. What did gentlemen do? "Hunting."

"You enjoy hunting?" He pulled out a large, speckled handkerchief and mopped at his forehead. She looked at the gathering beads of sweat with horrified curiosity. "How very—well, I suppose it is not so unusual for young ladies to enjoy hunting these days."

"And shooting," she continued, ignoring the glare her mother directed at her. "I do so wish my father would let me shoot."

"Shooting? Young ladies ought not to shoot, Lady Theodosia."

She beamed at him. "You sound just like my father." And you look like him, too . When he spluttered, she rose and tugged on the bell pull. "Are you well? I shall have some more refreshments brought in."

"No, there is no need—I do not—thank you, Lady Theodosia, but I am quite well."

"Are you certain? My father finds he suffers from gout on occasion, and I declare I could spot it from anywhere. "

"I do not suffer from gout," he said, a little sharply. "My health is perfectly satisfactory."

Theodosia let the silence drift uncomfortably before she smiled. "Of course, sir. How do you like to read?"

"Read?" He blinked as though the idea were entirely foreign. "Do you mean novels?"

"What else? I read as often as I can, although I am so busy of late I hardly have the time. Mrs Radcliffe's novels are my favourite. A female author? Can you imagine?" She did not give him the chance to reply, although he opened his mouth hopelessly in the attempt. "I find it positively charming that ladies can be authors, too."

"Sensationalist fiction," he said, mopping his brow once more.

"And yet so very compelling. I could read The Mysteries of Udolfo a thousand times over."

"Theodosia," her mother said, approaching them from the corner of the room. "Are you letting your tongue run away with you again?"

"How can I help myself when I feel so comfortable around Lord Weston?" Theodosia said. "He makes me feel quite as at ease as Papa."

"Enough." Lady Shrewsbury's tone was quiet, but the expression in her eyes promised trouble. "Thank you for calling, Lord Weston. I do hope we'll see you again."

I don't , Theodosia thought.

"Yes, well." He rose awkwardly to his feet, giving Theodosia a rather unfortunate view of the way his waistcoat strained at the waist. "I'm afraid I have some business. Urgent, you know. I'm sure I shall see you again."

"Will we see you at the Norfolk ball tomorrow?" Lady Shrewsbury pressed.

"Well, I." He mopped at his face once more. "I expect I shall attend, but I cannot be certain—I cannot make promises. "

"Of course. I quite understand." Her mother gave him a tight-lipped smile that made no pretence at humour. "Goodbye, Lord Weston."

"Indeed. Lady Shrewsbury. Lady Theodosia Beaumont." He bowed. "Lady Annabelle."

All three ladies curtsied and he left the room. As soon as he did, Theodosia flopped back on the sofa. "Goodness," she said into the silence. "I thought he would never leave."

"Theodosia Charlotte Beaumont."

"Yes, Mama?"

"What were you doing?"

Theodosia blinked innocently. "Why, discussing the benefits of modern literature with Lord Weston."

Her mother's eyes narrowed. "You know precisely what you were doing, young lady, and I shall not have it."

"But he was so old, Mama," she said, casting her sister a pleading glance. "And did you see? He barely had any teeth."

"That is not the matter at hand."

"It should be," she muttered. "I understand my duty, Mama, but surely there is one gentleman in all of London prepared to marry me who is also in possession of his teeth."

"A gentleman who is prepared to overlook your lack of dowry?" Lady Shrewsbury's tone was sharp. "You cannot be squeamish, Theo."

Theo did not believe her requirements—a man younger than her father who retained his teeth, faculties, and all his limbs—were squeamish. But she ducked her head. "Yes, Mama," she said, staring at her fingers and the red prick where she had stabbed herself during the morning's sewing. "May I go for a walk with Annabelle?"

Her mother agreed, provided they were accompanied by a maid, and the two ladies set off, arm in arm .

"You shan't find your hero in Hyde Park, Theo," Annabelle teased as Theo watched every passing face. "Even if he does exist, he won't be lurking on the promenade."

"You don't know that."

Annabelle regarded her sister with laughing blue eyes. "Heroes don't do anything as unromantic as lurk."

"Much you would know on the subject," Theo returned. "Besides, as apparently the only gentlemen prepared to court a dowry-less lady are over the age of forty, I must try something."

"I hardly think this is how to find a husband. Try looking at the Norfolk ball. Your future husband is more likely to be in a ballroom than among the bushes."

Theo groaned. "But you know as soon as I enter the room, the Earl of Whitstable will pounce. I just know it."

"He's far too old to pounce," Annabelle said with a giggle.

" You may find my situation funny, but I do not."

"If it came to it, I'm certain you could outrun him."

She pinned her lips together, but the thought of her fleeing the ballroom with the elderly Earl lumbering after her was too much, and she burst into a peal of laughter. "If I know the Earl, it shall certainly come to it," she said. "But—oh, just imagine if there was a tall, dark, handsome stranger there, prepared to sweep me off my feet and carry me away."

"That sounds more like a kidnapping to me."

Theo pinched her sister's arm, but despite the chance she would see the Earl of Whitstable, she could not help hoping she might also get at least a glimpse of her hero.