The Trouble with Tweed (Fabric of Love #1)

Chapter 1

Claire Amelia Preston sat in the chair at her fine writing desk. Although it was an antique, it was new to her. Everything had changed drastically since her brother William returned from India. Their family’s entire house was nearly unrecognizable—though she suspected he’d done that intentionally.

None of them wanted to remember the dark days of the past few years.

Most likely, William wanted to forget out of brotherly guilt—he’d been halfway around the world and hadn’t known.

Claire wanted to forget because she’d lived through them.

When the collectors had nearly beat the front door down and her eldest brother wasn’t home, Claire had been the one to answer. Claire had been the one to…

She shook her head. She would not think of that ever again if she could help it. Besides, that was all well behind her now. Their fortunes had been restored—William apparently had more money than he could ever spend—and she and her sisters were to have a Season.

For her sisters, this would be their first venture into the marriage mart. For Claire, it was to be a do-over of that disastrous Season where everything that could have gone wrong, had.

Claire vacillated between irritation and understanding about everyone pretending she’d never been out before.

Though she’d been presented four years ago, she’d only attended two balls before her life had capsized like a folded paper boat tossed onto a stormy sea.

None of her sisters knew it, but it wasn’t just the collapse of the family’s fortune and their eldest brother’s neglect that had marked that as the worst chapter of Claire’s life.

Claire pressed her lips together. She would not think of him, either.

At least, not the way she used to. Claire straightened her back and stared at the blank parchment before her.

She was determined to secure her future in the only way available to her—she intended to marry this Season, one way or another.

You should write a list, Dahlia had said.

Though Claire had initially disliked Miss Warrington—for reasons too tender to ruminate on for long—something about her suggestion appealed to Claire’s organized mind.

Besides, it was slightly dangerous and exciting, putting pen to paper to define what one wanted in a husband.

Many ladies would never admit that they had strict requirements, though indeed all of them did.

Claire picked up a sleek silver pen—a gift from William, as was everything else in her room—and stared out the window.

She’d thought that her requirements for a husband would be easy to define, but soon she’d contemplated the park across the street for nearly fifteen minutes, her pointed chin cradled in a thin hand.

Claire supposed that she should write things like kindness and generosity. If she were writing this list as some sort of assignment—for a governess perhaps—that was what she would have done. Such words were expected.

However, this list was for herself, and truthfully, Claire didn’t care if her husband was all that generous. Depending on his wealth, she would rather he keep all their income for themselves. So, with a thrill of something akin to guilt, Claire put wealthy at the top of her list.

Next, she wrote prudent. It didn’t take any force of genius to comprehend why these characteristics were top priorities.

Her brother Richard had been awful at many things, but the foremost among them was his inability to live within his means.

Richard never met a pair of dice he didn’t want to toss, never met a woman of ill repute he didn’t wish to set up in private apartments.

Claire added age-appropriate. Below that, she wrote Above All, No Rakes. She underlined this fiercely several times, as if her future self might forget.

She slid the parchment back and examined it, then frowned.

The problem with her list was that it was so general.

Many men would fit her guidelines—at least at first glance.

Besides, one of the items was not a topic of common knowledge—at least not to ladies such as herself.

Why, Claire had only realized that her brother Richard was a terrible rake once he’d stopped paying the household’s bills, but surely he had been a rake well before that.

What was the solution? Claire supposed she could linger outside of gambling dens, or hire someone else to do so, and make an exhaustive list. But many gentlemen who frequented clubs only placed modest bets they could easily cover.

Certainly not every gentleman who darkened the door of a gambling hall was as feckless as Richard had been.

Claire would need inside information. She would need to acquire the confidence of a gentleman who had access to such places—someone who could recognize the signs of a rake from twenty paces.

Claire frowned at the inlaid desktop and traced a swirling scroll with her fingertip. In order to avoid the secret rakes, she would have to find a notorious one she could trust—at least well enough to advise her on the others.

After all, it stood to reason that one rake could easily identify another. Claire knew just the fellow.

Besides, in her mind, Lord Rutheridge owed her.