Chapter 1
April 1817 – Berkswell House, Mayfair
Grace scannedthe ballroom looking for her quarry. She wasn’t certain who her quarry was, honestly. But she figured she’d know him when she saw him. At least she hoped she would. Or at least someone who would do.
Her sister Hope linked her arm with Grace’s and whispered, “Any luck?”
Not so far. Grace shook her head.
“What about Mr. Potsdon?” her sister suggested, glancing toward the refreshment table where Mr. Albert Potsdon was downing three cucumber sandwiches at once. “He’s generally pleasant.”
Grace snorted, and was quite fortunate her mother was too busy speaking with Lady Prestwood a few feet away to notice. “I don’t know who my husband will be, but he won’t be that oaf.”
Hope heaved a sigh. “You’re being ridiculous.”
And that was saying something coming from Hope, who had been more ridiculous in the last two years than Grace, their triplet Patience, and their two older brothers had been all combined. “Well, when the Duke of Danby slaps a special license down on his desk before you and tells you which fellow he’s picked out for you to spend the rest of your life with this Christmas, don’t blame me when you’re not happy with the outcome.”
And if it wasn’t for fear of what their great-uncle might do, Grace wouldn’t be scanning the Berkswell’s ballroom right now, looking for her future husband either. But she’d rather select the candidate herself than let the grumpy old duke do the picking for her. Honestly, she was fortunate to have escaped the last Christmas at Danby Castle without having been promised to whomever had struck His Grace’s fancy at the time. The odds of surviving two Christmases was hardly likely. And that meant Grace had nine months to find the perfect…or at least the mostacceptablehusband possible before her fate was selected for her.
“The season just began,” Hope muttered. “You don’t need to find your husband tonight or even this week. Just—” she shrugged “—don’t get so worked up.”
“How are younotworked up?” she countered. “You were there when Patience walked down the aisle at Danby Chapel. The man had a special license with her name on it.A special license. The only way he could have gotten one in such short notice is that he was already in possession of it.”
“Henry had a special license,” Hope said, wincing slightly. “It’s not so unusual.”
There was nothingusualabout the Duke of Danby and there was nothingusualabout Henry Baxter, the late-Earl of Kilworth either. But Grace bit her tongue from saying as much. Belittling the dead man always sent her sister into a fit of histrionics, and the last thing Grace needed tonight was to deal with Hope’s misplaced sensibilities. Especially when she had a husband to find and only nine months in which to bring the fellow, whoever he was, up to scratch.
“Just don’t be in a rush,” Hope said. “Hastiness might keep you from finding your true love.”
Ha! True love was a cruel joke.
“Grace,” Oliver Ashbee, the Earl of Prestwood, appeared before her as if on cue both in regard to true love and cruel jokes.
Blast him! Why couldn’t he leave her alone? It was hard enough to endure his presence on any given day, but certainly not when Grace was searching for a potential husband. She scowled up at the only man who had ever made her pulse race or her breath catch and hated him anew for looking so dashing in his dark eveningwear. His piercing blue eyes twinkled wickedly like they always did, and a playful smirk settled on his lips.
“Might I have this dance?” he asked.
“I’d much prefer to eat broken glass, Oliver.”
Hope gasped and then breathed out, “Grace,” in a rather shocked tone. Though how Hope could still be shocked after all these years was even more surprising.
“Hope.” Oliver smiled down at her sister. “You are looking well this evening.”
“You only know she’s Hope since Patience is in Yorkshire.” The blackguard never could tell her sisters apart. And it was rather annoying watching him pretend to be so genuine and dashing, especially as Grace knew he was very far from that.
“I’ve never confusedyouwith anyone else,” he returned smoothly, which just made her want to slug him.
“Pity that,” she began breezily, “or you could torment someone else in my stead.” Like perhaps his fiancée. Honestly, shouldn’t he be more attentive to Lady Eloise? If Grace saw him less, she might actually be able to forget him.
“You’ll have to excuse her,” Hope said softly. “She’s in a rotten mood.”
“Do not make excuses for me tohim,” Grace grumbled. After all, she was intentionally awful to Oliver every chance she got, always hoping he’d finally have enough of her barbs and acidic tongue to leave her alone completely. Any sane man would have left her alone years ago. And what did it say about her that she was in love with an insane man? Nothing good, certainly; but she didn’t want to think on that. And she certainly didn’t want to love him.
Oliver’s blue eyes shifted to Hope and he smiled. “We could leave Grace to enjoy her broken glass, if you’d be willing to stand up with me.”
Grace’s mouth dropped open. Never once, not one time ever had Oliver asked either of her sisters to dance. He always asked Grace, who would refuse, naturally; and then they would engage in their traditional lobbing of insults or innuendo (in his case) at each other before he’d finally make his way somewhere else.
“I’d be delighted,” Hope replied and cast Grace a censorious expression as she accepted Oliver’s outstretched hand.