Chapter One
December, 1813
Alistair had notdragged himself to Abingdon Hall in Oxfordshire for the punch. The flavor was middling, not nearly as sickeningly sweet as orgeat. Nor had he come for the pine boughs and sprigs of mistletoe. He had not even come for the endless diversions. Or for Christmas.
He scoured the ballroom in search of his quarry.
He was more than aware that, as the Duke of Warwick, he was one of the most eligible catches of thebeau monde. Thankfully, within the select ranks of Mr. Devereaux Winter and Lady Emilia Winter’s Christmas country house party, he felt less like a fox surrounded by a pack of slavering hounds than he ordinarily did. Even if it was no secret the reason for the fête was to secure noble matches for Mr. Winter’s five sisters.
It was fortunate indeed, for he had grown tired of the female pursuit which had dogged him all his life. Caps had been thrown at him, ad nauseam, nearly since he’d been in leading strings. He was accustomed to feminine wiles, stares, the attempts of matchmaking mothers. In his youth, that admiration had swelled his pride. Now, at seven-and-twenty, it left him feeling hollow. Searching for something elusive.
Searching forher.
Or, to be specific, for his Freckles, dedicated bluestocking, sister to his very best friend, and the one woman who, of all the ladies of his acquaintance—which were nighlegion—was the only woman with whom he would face the hangman’s noose.Er, the only woman he would wed. And wed he must. With as much haste as he could politely manage. Time was no longer a commodity he could afford to squander.
“Are you certain she is not hiding in her chamber reading a book, Aylesford?” he growled at the friend by his side, frustration getting the better of him.
“Who, are you looking for, Warwick?” Rand, Viscount Aylesford, took a sip of his punch and grimaced. “Devil take it with the swill they serve at these country affairs. Where is blue ruin when one needs it? And why the hell did I allow myself to be forced into attendance here at such a tedious affair?”
“Blue ruin is decidedlyde tropon the marriage mart.” He ignored his friend’s question and flicked a glance over the glittering lords and ladies assembled, seeking sleek auburn curls. “I’m afraid you will have to suffer the punch or go dry, unless you can convince Mr. Winter to open his stores of liquor for you.”
“The marriage mart.” Rand shuddered. “If my dragon grandmother has her way, I shall not be long upon it. Remind me why I am here when I have no interest in the parson’s mousetrap.”
Rand was a notorious rakehell and ne’er-do-well. Alistair had not been far from his footsteps over the last few years. Together, they had lost themselves in drink and quim aplenty. But circumstances had altered for Alistair.
Vastly.
And he could no longer afford to live the life he once had.
Literally.
He kept his tone bored, attempting to cloak the unrest stealing through him lest his friend grow suspicious. “Because the dowager has decreed you must wed if you wish to inherit Tyre Abbey. Not to mention your mother and sister are in attendance.”
There.That ought to be enough substance to distract Rand from the fact that Alistair, his best friend, wanted his sister with a desperation so strong he felt it in his teeth. For now.
Of course, he would need to tell Rand the truth soon enough. Perhaps even tonight, if Freckles ever deigned to appear, for he meant to make his intentions known to her as expediently as possible. His friend would not object to the match, he thought.
Just as long as Rand did not discover how perilously near to ruin he was.
“How could I forget?” Rand asked. “Family duty is a bugbear. Thank Christ Hertford suggested the idea of a feigned betrothal. I ought to have thought of it myself.”
“Have you convinced Miss Winter to agree to your plan?” he asked, still searching for his quarry.
She had been avoiding him all Season long, since the night he’d found her in the gardens at Havenhurst’s ball, which had been the very same evening that he’d realized the answer to his predicament had been before him all along. But not only had she denied him his dance by pleading a headache to her mother and leaving the affair prematurely, she had also thwarted him at every turn thereafter.
“Not yet.” Rand’s tone was confident.
And why should it not be? He was a rake who always got what he wanted.
Alistair had been too, once. Now, what he wanted—and needed—most remained elusive. Freckles and blunt, in precisely that order.
When he had attempted to seek her out at the Bodley musicale, she had disappeared into the lady’s withdrawing room. He had dined with her family, and she had been absent, with some unconvincing excuse made on her behalf. Nearly every attempt he made to cross paths with her at society events had resulted in her skillful evasion.
To make matters worse, he had learned from Rand that, under pressure from their parents, the Duke and Duchess of Revelstoke, Freckles was expected to make a match before she retired to the shelf forever. The duke was prepared to send her off to become companion to the Marchioness of Bond and her half dozen ill-mannered corgis.
Alistair gritted his teeth at the thought of Freckles becoming the lackey of a well-documented curmudgeon like the Marchioness of Bond. Freckles was not meant to fade into the background.
Why not her?
