Colehaven and Eastleigh weren’t just co-owners of the popular and semi-reputable Wicked Duke tavern. They were actual dukes. Moneyed, handsome, eligible ones. Every marriageable young lady in London swooned in their paths.
At least, they had done so until this season, when they’d both tied the parson’s knot. Love matches, proving it could be done! For handsome dukes, anyway. Now that they were off the market, Thad’s chances had risen overnight.
He glanced about the ballroom at the other men on the hunt. There were elderly but titled roués, feather-witted but deep-pocketed youths, well-mannered fortune-hunters, second and third sons…
And Thad.
No title, but Thad considered not being chained to the House of Lords an advantage. He wasn’t astonishingly wealthy, but his annuity would keep a family comfortable for generations to come. Besides, he didn’t want to marry some chit so desperate to increase her standing that she’d marry a sack of potatoes if it meant access to a title or fortune.
Label him a romantic if one must, but Thad refused to settle for anything less than happy ever after.
“See my future countess anywhere?” sighed a familiar voice from behind Thad’s shoulder.
He turned to give a crooked smile to a friend whose earldom could barely afford to maintain its unentailed properties—which happened to adjoin those of a young lady whose dowry would increase the earl’s land and his coffers. A neat solution, if only the parties in question had any interest in each other.
“Good luck,” Thad said with feeling. Sometimes luck was all one had.
The earl was far from unusual. In most cases, qualifications for “the one” were determined by societal connections, advantageous political alliances, acquisition of wealth, control of property, and countless other practical concerns. And, in most cases, Almack’s assembly rooms were the perfect place to solve those problems.
All the familiar faces sailing past came from good families; ladies of good breeding, respectable gentlemen. One needn’t fear distressing surprises in that regard, because the patronesses seated upon the dais at the upper end of the ballroom had personally approved every single person in possession of an admittance voucher.
The Marriage Mart was a convenient method of displaying both one’s availability and eligibility to interested parties. Indeed, Almack’s had been a London institution since 1765. Thad’s parents had met within these very walls.
“Card room in half an hour,” another friend said to Thad as he passed. “Three card loo. Mortram is hoping to win back the phaeton he lost last night.”
Thad inclined his head. He wouldn’t be gambling. He wouldn’t risk what little he had to offer.
During her come-out year, Thad’s mother had been reasonably sought after, and soon had the choice between a penniless baron and plain old mister with two thousand per year. Neither was a love match. She chose the man with deeper pockets.
Thad wouldn’t blame any woman for choosing the man with money. Marrying well was virtually the only manner in which a young lady could influence her future. But Thad’s mother never forgave her husband for not being a lord, and Thad’s father never forgave his beautiful young wife for not staying eighteen and perfect forever.
Neither paid much attention to their son… but Thad had been watching closely.
Theirs was not the sort of match he intended to replicate. Most ton marriages might be political or financial or social, but he didn’t need those things. All he’d ever wanted was love.
Despite his parents’ unhappy marriage, Thad still believed in romance. And he’d witnessed happy-ever-after… well, secondhand. His cousin Diana had just married for love, following in the footsteps of her parents before her, who had likewise been head-over-heels for each other from the first reading of the banns until the night a fever claimed them, a quarter century later.
That was what Thad longed for. Not just “until death do us part” but “in love from now till death, and forever after.” He’d been searching for it for as long as he could remember.
“Did you sample tonight’s refreshments?” another friend murmured at his shoulder.
Thad shook his head. “It’s always watered-down orgeat and day-old bread.”
“Week-old by the taste of it,” his friend lamented with a sigh. “When will I learn?”
An excellent point. One could not do the same as always and expect different results.
Earlier this year, Thad had realized he’d been placing all his attention on the same pool of ladies. The outgoing ones, the flirtatious ones, the ones who had known him for so long that every one of his dances was promised within moments of stepping foot in a ballroom. Such evenings were fun, but got him no closer to his goal. Worse, he might have spent the past decade skipping over all the most interesting women.
Thad had immediately declared this season the Year of the Wallflower.
By dedicating at least half of each evening to ladies he’d never danced with before, he’d met countless new friends… and no potential brides. But just because there had been no fireworks so far didn’t mean he was on the wrong track. In fact, the season had barely begun, and he’d already witnessed two unlikely love matches. Didn’t fortune come in threes?
He turned a slow circle, paying close attention to those in the margins. Although gentlemen carried no dance cards, Thad kept careful track. He still had a handful of unclaimed sets. Some young lady here tonight might be the one to spark the fireworks he sought.
There.
An excited tingle of anticipation rushed through him. Dark brown curls, gorgeous brown eyes, dusky pink lips, an enticing combination of soft skin and lush curves wrapped in a gauzy roses-and-cream evening gown.
