Chapter 1
Fangfoss Manor, Yorkshire, England
There were two universally acknowledged truths in polite society these days. The first was that country house parties were ideal for finding new bed partners, and the second was to never be caught alone with a member of the opposite sex when Lady Clementine Hammond was anywhere in the vicinity.
Unfortunately for the Marquess of Dorset, no one had informed him, prior to his acceptance of the invitation to the house party at which he currently found himself, that those in attendance would not be bored wives eager for new lovers. No indeed. Not a one of them.
Instead, they were the most despicable creatures of all.
Unwed ladies.
Including the dreadful Lady Clementine Hammond herself.
Where was a convenient glass of Sauternes when he needed one? Dorset glanced around the guests milling about on the lawn of Fangfoss Manor and decided an entire bottle was much more the thing. A mere few sips could not be sufficient to deaden himself to the terrible company in which he now stood, duck out of water.
Or was it fish out of water?
Never mind that.
At least I have friends here.
And thank the Lord for that small, heavenly mercy. But he would have far preferred to see them in London. Or at any one of their several estates.Hell, at his own crumbling familial pile, as long as it meant they were nowhere near the maliciously laid matrimonial trap which was this cursed country house party. He had to manufacture his exeunt, stage left, and with all bloody haste.
First the gardens, then the estate.
Gradually maneuvering himself to the periphery of the gathering, he found his way to the path which led to the massive maze—one of the crowning elements of the Fangfoss Manor gardens. If he could not get lost in wine, then at least he could find a respite. Getting lost in a maze was preferable to navigating the stew of tittering, chattering, preening ladies who had arrived in unashamed search of their matrimonial prize.
As he neared the entrance to the maze, Lady Clementine Hammond snagged his attention. That the brunette beauty could still appear so lovely whilst so outlandishly garbed was a testament to her ancestry. He would give the unlikeable chit no credit of her own.
She was wearing an abomination of a hat trimmed with bountiful silk flowers in various states of bloom.Christ, the thing resembled nothing so much as a cake. A big, hideous summer’s garden cake. Her gown was brilliant yellow, the skirts bedecked with clusters of silk flowers in nearly every color. In short, her ensemble was an invitation to bees.Look at me, it said,I am covered in flowers. Sting me if you please.
“It would serve her right,” he muttered to himself, inching his way to his escape route.
For surely there was an exit to the maze, and surely said exit must lead him far away from this unwanted crush of unwedded feminine enthusiasm. Otherwise, he would have no choice but to find a hedge beneath which he could safely hide until this interminable garden gathering was concluded.
Of all the unmarried ladies in attendance at this wretched house party, there could be none who irked him more than Lady Clementine. She had earned her reputation as London’s most notorious matchmaker by making a regular habit of catching couples in compromising situations and making certain they were left with marriage as their only option. No one knew better how damning the effects of her matchmaking schemes could be. Dorset had lost the woman he loved because of Lady Clementine’s malicious interference.
He loathed her.
Detestedthe chit, in fact.
Could not believe he was expected to suffer a moment more of the house party with her.
He reached the head of the maze at long last and disappeared within. The artfully sculpted hedges would provide him ample cover from his fellow guests, along with the chance to cool his piqued ire. He had been early to the house party, desperately hungry for the entertainments which could uniquely be afforded by the uninhibited freedoms of such country gatherings.
Only to realize he would have none of those freedoms. Unless he wanted an unexpected marchioness, thanks to Lady Clementine Hammond and his hostess, the Countess of Fangfoss, he was going to have to relegate all such diversions to his damnedhand.
Crunch, crunch, crunchwent his steps on the gravel path. He turned left, then right, then left again, thinking he would recall his path with ease, should he arrive at a dead end. The sky was bright blue overhead, speckled with fat, white clouds. The sun was warm.
The farther he traveled from the gathering, the more his tensions eased. He made some more turns.Right, right, left, right.The fresh air of the country was always excellent. He might distract himself by riding, fishing, engaging in sport.
Finding the wine and drinking it all.
Hiding from Lady Clementine and every eligible lady present.
Christ.There had to be a widow at Fangfoss Manor. Or an unhappy wife. Someone who would have no qualms about being seduced by a marquess whose heart had already been reduced to ash.
As he moved, the specter of the manor house loomed over him, tall, wide, imposing. He tried to gauge the direction he should take next, and found himself blocked off by shrubbery.
