Chapter One
Edinburgh, 1816
Finlay Primrose wasnever one for garden parties, or any party really. But yet, such a gathering is where the Earl of Rosebery currently found himself. Duty mandated his attendance, not want.
He surveyed the well-manicured grounds as he sipped the champagne he had snatched from one of the trays being carried by the staff of the Duke of Forthington. An old acquaintance whose wife had insisted on this party to celebrate the recent birth of their son.
He masked a grimace as the liquid bubbled down his throat. There was a time when he enjoyed the effervescence of champagne, but he much preferred whisky now. Though neither did anything to cool him from the heat of the sun. Why did they always insist on having these parties at the peak of day?
Fingal, Finlay’s twin brother, and his wife, Yvette, were nowhere in sight and Finlay breathed a sigh of relief. After all, his ne’er-do-well brother was one of the reasons Finlay was even here. Their late father was the other, with his ridiculous demand that Finlay wed before his next birthday—or lose the title to his younger brother. It would be a devastating turn of events for such a thing to come to fruition. Especially with how irresponsible his brother was.
He would not allow such a travesty to happen. Once again, for the umpteenth time, he found himself cursing his father and his damned will. What kind of person included such a clause? A person who still wanted to rule his sons’ lives even from the grave, that’s what kind.
“My lord,” Lady Ruddiman interrupted his thoughts.
He rolled his lips inward to stop a biting remark to tell her that he had no interest in what she was about to offer. Which was most likely the lass dragging her feet behind her mother who, as if on a mission, trudged toward him. This very scenario was why he usually avoided these types of gatherings. Instead, he bowed politely and gave the woman a half-hearted smile that he didn’t feel.
Taking no notice of his disinterest, the buxom woman curtsied in return, her hair piled so haphazardly high on her head, he feared it might topple over. Blonde ringlets fell in front of each ear. Emeralds encased in gold dangled and swayed back and forth from her earlobes with each step she took.
“May I introduce ye to my daughter?” She tugged on the gloved hand of the lass cowering behind her. The lass stumbled forward, her cheeks pink with embarrassment as she caught her footing. “Miss Cordelia Ruddiman,” Lady Ruddiman said proudly, a huge smile plastered on her overly powdered face, made more prominent by the harsh red rouge she had rubbed onto her cheeks.
To her credit, the lass acted through the steps that she had no doubt been taught for years now, preparing her for her introduction into society. She dipped into a curtsy and looked up at him through lowered lashes.
The lass was pleasant enough. Unlike her mother, her blonde hair was perfectly coiffed. Her cheeks perfectly rouged. Lips perfectly tinted. She could be what he was looking for in a wife.
But her smile did not reach her eyes. Her persona far too meek. It was as if she wanted to be anywhere but where they were. Which he could appreciate. That was more than likely the one and only sentiment they shared.
He cleared his throat and bowed his acknowledgement. “’Tis lovely to meet ye, Miss Ruddiman. I do hope ye are enjoying your afternoon.”
“Aye, my lord. Verra much so.”
As she spoke, Finlay noted the waver in her voice. The falter in her smile as she looked up at him. Aye, her attendance was most definitely not her idea. Unfortunately for her, it seemed marrying off her daughter was what was most important to Lady Ruddiman. Her daughter’s unwillingness to be committed to a man mattered naught.
Finlay felt bad for the poor lass. He had seen enough young women enter into society and he kenned it was not easy. Some lasses handled it better than others. But being forced into it before one was ready struck him as unwarranted and a bit cruel.
Miss Ruddiman appeared young in both mind and age. The lass could not be more than ten and seven. Which was much too young for him and far from what he was looking for. He wanted a wife that had some spark to her. A wife that would challenge him. Not one that would just bend and break to whatever he said. Which was what Miss Ruddiman would surely do.
Though he had no interest in Miss Ruddiman, he was sure she would find a match this season—just not with him.
Not wanting to engage in more conversation or open the door for future enquiries, he excused himself and walked to the outer perimeter of the garden, staying away from the crowd, deftly avoiding meeting the eyes of the den of lionesses trying to marry off their daughters to him or one of the other eligible bachelors in attendance. He tugged on his cravat, tilting his head to the side and took a deep breath. He was beginning to feel like ananimal in a cage. He longed for the solace of his study. But hiding away at his estate would not get him what he needed.
Two months. That was when he turned twenty-eight. By that time, he needed to be married. If not, Fingal became earl and Finlay refused to let that happen. His twin had never shown any interest in the Primrose family affairs, whether it be their holdings or their finances. Instead he focused all his interest in whoring his way through the city—until he had found his wife and even still he wouldn’t be surprised if Fingal still had dalliances while continuing to burn his way through the family fortune. His brother had nearly failed out of Eton, for God’s sake. He would have if their father had not stepped in with a sizeable donation to the school. How that in itself didn’t stop their father from putting his ridiculous plan forward, he would never understand.
Money was not an issue for the Primroses. But that did not mean that Fingal would not set them on a path of destruction. Even the greatest houses could fall under the right circumstances.
Fingal Primrose and his new wife were the last people that Rosewood Manor needed. Yvette was a nice enough lass, but had no sense when it came to financial affairs. They hadn’t been married long and Finlay wasn’t entirely convinced that she wasn’t only after the Rosebery fortune. She spent money as if it came from unlimited resources. So much so, that Finlay had had to put a limit to their monthly allowance. Something that his brother hated him for.
Their father be damned. He surely must have been daft when he came up with this hare-brained idea. That was the only conclusion Finlay could come to. Their father had to ken that turning the title and all of its holdings over to Fingal and Yvette would be the downfall of them all.
Nay. He would not allow it to happen. He refused to. If finding a wife was what Finlay needed to do to satisfy their father’s last wishes, then find a wife he would. Doing so would also lessen Fingal’s claim to the title. His brother thought that since he was married, he was better suited to be earl.
How hard could finding a wife be? Lasses had never been an issue for him. He’d lost himself in the warm body of many a lass over the years. This really shouldn’t be any different.
He glanced over his shoulder at the pool of mothers and daughters in search of titled and fitting husbands and he shook his head.
It should be an easy endeavor—there were plenty of available lasses at this party alone—if he cared naught for the type of woman he would be bonded to. But he unfortunately, did. If he was going to be forced to marry, he wanted to have some interest in the lass. Turning the corner he sought the solace of the maze where he knew benches were set that he could sit upon and gather his head for a moment. Jumping into this pit of venomous snakes was going to take a lot of patience. A trait that Finlay was severely lacking these days, the looming deadline hanging over his head a large contributing factor to his disquietude.
He hurried his pace to ensure no one would see his retreat. It reminded him of dashing through enemy lines as he sought safety on the other side. If he recalled correctly, the maze was just on the other side of the brick wall. He rounded the corner and oomph.
