“No. I like you. You talk to me like I’m smart. We like to sing songs together and catch frogs and have tea parties. What else is there to want in a husband?”
Fletcher laughed. “You make it sound simple.”
“It is. Although I suppose if a handsome prince offered for me, I’d have to say yes.”
“Naturally.”
“But if no handsome princes are around, I’m marrying you.”
“If you say so,” Fletcher said. Hopefully, it wouldn’t come to that.
Chapter One
London, 1818
Fletcher Basildon, recently made the Marquess of Greystone after the death of his father, stood on the back terrace of the Rutherfords’ palatial London home and stared at the stars.
What a shambles tonight had proved to be.
First, Eltingham had managed to swindle him out of a small fortune at cards because Fletcher had counted incorrectly.
Then, he’d had to pour his friend—Larkin Woodville, the Earl of Waring—into a carriage after he drank one too many glasses of brandy. Fletcher had not known it possible to become so drunk on brandy, but Lark had certainly proved it could be done.
Then, he’d watched Owen Thomas, the Earl of Caernarfon and Fletcher’s dearest friend, spend the evening dancing with his wife like the besotted idiot he’d become. Fletcher was happy for Owen, but mostly it highlighted how lonely Fletcher had felt of late. Nearly all of his friends had married and had their own families now, and Fletcher found himself too often left to his own devices.
And now he’d had to bear witness to maybe the worst thing of all--the announcement of the engagement of Lady Louisa Petty to the Duke of Rotherfield.
If anyone had asked, Fletcher would have made it clear that he wasnotjealous. He just thought Louisa could have found a better husband.
Alas, no one had asked.
No one else was on the terrace, which was a little bit odd considering it was such a nice night. The cool, crisp air had a bit of a bite, Fletcher’s favorite weather. He had a snifter of Rutherford’s good whiskey dangling from his fingers as he looked out at their back garden. He took a deep breath and tried to relax his tense shoulders.
The other thing that had been extraordinary about this whole season was that suddenly, Lady Louisa was the sparkling jewel to which all eligible bachelors were attracted. Fletcher could not quite discern why; at five and twenty—nearly six and twenty—Louisa was old enough to be considered on the shelf under other circumstances. But once Rotherfeld started paying attention to her, suddenly everyone else did, too.
And why not? Louisa was beautiful and clever, plainspoken and witty, and Fletcher had always enjoyed her company. She deserved to have a whole fleet of men to choose from when it came to finally marrying. And, truth be told, Fletcher was not entirely sure why it had taken so long, but he did not begrudge her the happiness she’d found.
All right, fine, Rotherfeld was exactly the sort of man Fletcher had pictured Louisa ending up with. He was young and handsome, absurdly wealthy, and well respected. And Louisa, despite her advanced age, was one of the best people Fletcher knew. She was pretty, with a riot of dark curly hair that combs and pins struggled to tame; she had a heart-shaped face and a warm smile. What Fletcher liked about her, what he’d admired since their childhood, was her intellect and her sly sense of humor.Of courseRotherfeld was smitten; what wasn’t to like?
Fletcher wasnotjealous. Louisa was a great friend, like a sister to him, but he didn’t have romantic feelings for her.
He took a big gulp of whiskey.
The hinge on the door that led to the terrace squeaked, drawing Fletcher’s attention. Hugh Baxter, the Duke of Swynford, walked toward Fletcher.
“I wondered where you’d vanished. I thought maybe you’d left with Lark.”
“I thought to win back some of my losses at the card table, but luck is not with me tonight.”
Hugh nodded. “You are not, of course, avoiding Lady Louisa.”
“I am not. I made sure to congratulate her on her engagement before I walked out here for some air.”
“Right.”
“I wish her all happiness.”
“Naturally.”
