Perhaps even find a wife.
Chapter One
London, England
March 1816
BloodyCharles.
Six years ago, when they’d been tucked together in the damp packet ship being tossed about the sea like a reticule hanging from a dancing woman’s wrist, Tristan had sworn not to be the final married man in his group of friends. He couldn’taffordto lose, of course. One hundred pounds to each of his friends would nearly empty his coffers. Once they’d safely reached land, the immediate threat had vanished, long since pushed to the back of his mind.
He only needed to avoid being the final bachelor, after all. There were seven men total, so he’d had time.
That was before his twin brother had gone off and found himself a bride.
Tristan angled the single sheet letter toward the firelightand read the words again. Charles had gotten himself leg-shackled, and if Tristan had to hazard a guess, he would wager it was owed to the machinations of their overly concerned mother.
To make matters worse, Charles had canceled their hunting trip in favor of his honeymoon.
Tristan set the letter on his desk and leaned back in his chair. He’d been looking forward to spending that time with his brother. Now, he would remain in London. His Town home wasn’t overly large, but it was comfortable. While his family chose to remain at Grendale Manor in Surrey, Tristan often had this entire house to himself. Mother planned to leave it to him someday, so he’d taken residence at Marblegate House about two years ago and hadn’t grown tired of Town life yet.
Though that was likely due to the fact that he had spent his time with friends, at Jackson’s boxing saloon, and enjoying late parties and equally late mornings to pay any heed to the old, water-logged wager he’d made with his friends that fateful night.
Now that Charles had married, though, the tally was up tothreeof his group of friends officially off the marriage mart, leaving four bachelors remaining. It was drawing too close for him to remain perfectly comfortable.
Tristan would need to start looking for a wife.
Thunder and turf. The responsibility of a wife was the very last thing he wanted at present.
He folded the letter and slid it into the top drawer of his desk before crossing the room to where Hanson had laid out his clothing for the day. He dressed, tying his cravat with extra force and shoving his feet into shiny Hessians. There were no women in his life at present, and despite Charles’s letter, Tristan did not trust his mother tochoose a woman he would enjoy spending the rest of his life with.
Above all, he had to admit to feeling slightly bothered his brother had gotten married without telling him. Yes, it had been fast, but Tristan had always imagined them doing everything together. Marriage seemed another of those things. The only reasonable cause was that the man had been coerced.
Knowing their mother, that was not entirely unlikely.
Still, Tristan had imagined them scouting London balls, choosing women they each approved of, and experiencing courting and finding wives at the same time. That was no longer the reality of the situation, and Tristan needed to let go of his past expectations.
The truth was only he and three other men remained in the wager. It was growing more real and needed to be taken seriously. Tristan was twenty-six years old. He had a decent home.
It was time he found a wife.
The lettersand invitations piled on the drawing room’s mantel listed multiple events for later that evening. Tristan filed through them, searching for the least offensive of the lot. Mrs. Pettigrew’s parties were unpredictable—one never did know whom would be invited. The debut ball for Miss Longren was promising. Possibly. If the chit wasn’t too silly, of course.
Though, her debutante friends would be in attendance. It was the more likely of the two to provide him with a decent selection of dance partners.
Lady Petunia’s ball would have the most wealthy and titled in attendance, but were any of their daughters likely toconsider Tristan seriously for a husband? He came with a house in Town and very little money—not quite the thing for women chasing viscounts and fortunes.
The door opened to his butler, Miller, holding a small, rectangular card. “A visitor, sir.”
Tristan crossed the room, hand out. “Who is it?”
“Mr. Whitby.”
A smile crept over his lips. Tristan hadn’t seen the man in ages. They had grown up near each other in their small town of Dorking. “Bring him in,” he told Miller. “He’s an old friend from Surrey.”
They had lost touch when Tristan and Charles had gone up to Cambridge, and by the time the twins had returned home, Whitby was off with his father to the West Indies, purchasing land and building their fortunes. They had done well for themselves, as far as he had heard.
Quick footsteps in the corridor preceded James’s entrance. He blew into the room with a careless smile on his tan face, his golden hair tamed into a dashing new mode. He wore a blue coat over a buttery yellow waistcoat, which was almost the exact shade of the silk settee and chairs in the center of the room. He needed only to trade out his tan cravat for the soft green of the walls and he would match the room perfectly.
