Chapter 1
One
LONDON
The chatter of the crowded ballroom drowned out the last strains of the music. The beeswax candles and flowers were competing with the smell of too many dancers packed too closely. The Fitzherberts had underestimated the size of their ballroom or their popularity, perhaps both.
Ambrose Hartley glanced at his partner, Miss Chambers, a well-dressed, petite lady with light brown hair. She smiled at him, and he offered his arm to escort her back to her mother.
He had been hard put to secure a dance with Miss Chambers.
When he’d placed her on his list of candidates, he’d no notion she was in such demand, though it was unsurprising.
She had a sizable dowry, her family was genteel and well positioned in the government, and she was known to be educated and of an easy temperament.
Her qualities closely matched his requirements for a wife.
“Oh, this is a crush,” Miss Chambers said as they shuffled through the throng.
“I won’t complain since it allows us time to converse,” Ambrose said with a smile.
“La, how gallant. What shall we speak on?”
“What do you think of the Corn Laws?”
Miss Chambers burst into a high-pitched giggle.
Why was that amusing?
Ambrose held back his frown as Miss Chambers began to talk of the weather instead. Begrudgingly Ambrose joined her in expressing wishes for a warm spring. He had hoped their dance would reveal her intellect, but perhaps a ballroom was not ideal for such a test.
When they finally reached Mrs. Chambers, he took his leave. He needed to think. And who could think in a bustling ballroom? He escaped through the nearest door.
The cold January air was welcome after the heat of the ballroom.
He had less than thirty minutes before he must return and claim his next partner.
He stuck to the footpath to preserve his dancing footwear.
With each step, it grew darker. The clamor from the house was replaced by low voices, crunching steps, and quiet giggles from deeper in the garden.
Ambrose paused. He had no wish to come upon an assignation.
William, his brother, and Tristan, his friend, often boasted of such meetings.
At nineteen, Ambrose had been foolish enough to meet Miss Popjoy in a winter garden to indulge in clandestine embraces.
Now at six and twenty, he thought it beneath a gentleman’s dignity to grope about in the dark with a woman.
Undignified and risky. Why, if Ambrose stumbled upon a couple, they might be forced to marry.
That was no way to get a wife. Passion was too unpredictable and could easily lead to a lifetime of misery.
Unlike some of his friends, Ambrose had learned to never let lust or sentiment interfere with the important decision of finding a spouse.
Instead of continuing farther into the garden, he walked to the stone bench just off the path. It sat nestled against a bare five-foot hedge.
The moment he sat, the cold began to leach through his buff breeches.
He slid forward to reduce the contact of his backside with the stone, then pulled out a small black notebook from his coat and began to flip through the pages.
The cold light from the full moon was bright enough for reading his carefully written notes.
This was the way to get a wife. A careful list, notes, and a solid scheme for obtaining more information before proceeding to courtship.
Ambrose had hoped to seek a wife the next year, but Thomas Denby had disrupted everything with his marriage. Now all of his friends were intent on not forfeiting a small fortune by being the last to marry.
Andrew Langford had already secured a wife—well, nearly. They had yet to officially exchange vows. Despite Langford’s speed, Ambrose was not worried. The Season had not even properly begun, and he had several quality candidates. His careful planning would ensure success.
The first page of his notebook contained a short list of requirements for the future Mrs. Hartley. Through careful consideration and research—he read several books on domestic felicity and observed the marriages of his family—Ambrose had compiled the necessary attributes for his future wife.
Requirements for a Wife
1. Intelligent, able to converse on a variety of topics
2. Excellent at domestic economy
3. Forgiving and charitable
4. Good hostess—graceful, well-mannered, amiable, etc.
5. Easy temperament—is not forever arguing
6. Genteel and delicate sensibilities
7. Dowry of at least five thousand
8. Reading habit—not novels
9. No older than three and twenty
10. Pleasing countenance
11. Honest
For a moment, Ambrose considered adding “pleasing laugh.” Before standing up with Miss Chambers, he had not considered how destructive an annoying laugh could be to one’s peace.
Instead he flipped to the page labeled Miss Chambers.
He would note her laugh and her agreement to accompany him to the theatre.
He was keeping notes on every lady he was considering. It would never do for him to forget some crucial detail that might prove disastrous to his future. Ignoring the cold in his fingers, he reached into his breast pocket for the small pencil he always carried.
His attention was caught by the prospect of the house. At this distance the imbalance of the wings was more noticeable, the columns not quite tall enough to offset the pediment. How had their architect been so careless?
Instead of writing down his thoughts on Miss Chambers, Ambrose began to sketch a different version of the mansion. He quickly became absorbed in the work, glancing up only occasionally at the real building.
“Drawing at a ball, Rosie?”
He jumped in surprise. The notebook seemed to leap from his hand.
Miss Susanna Fenton snatched the book from the air with a giggle.
“Don’t call me that,” Ambrose said reflexively as he sprang to his feet.
She tsked lightly, her hazel eyes dancing. “I won’t call you Ambrose. That is perfectly ghastly.”
“It is my name, and you should not use it either. Call me Mr. Hartley.”
“That is worse.” She shook her head, her blonde curls dancing. Her small nose wrinkled as if she smelled something terrible.
“Miss Fenton,” he grumbled.
“Don’t call me that,” she replied, mimicking him and waving his notebook in the air.
He frowned.
Her responding laugh was a high tinkle that others might find appealing but that only grated on Ambrose. She had started laughing at him when they were children on neighboring estates in Shropshire and never stopped.
Two years older and best friends with his sister Grace, Susanna Fenton was a fixture of his childhood. However, in recent years they rarely met. He had come to think of her as an acquaintance and addressed her accordingly.
She continued to treat him informally, as if he were her brother and not her former neighbor.
“Now what were you drawing?” She spun away from him as she opened the notebook.
He lunged forward, but she danced away onto the path.
It was undignified to chase a woman in a dark garden, but Ambrose was too annoyed to consider his dignity, and he took long strides toward her. Though of average height, he was a head taller than the lady, a far cry from the gangly boy she once knew.
When he was close, he reached for the notebook, but she pulled it away, slipping it behind her back as she turned to face him.
“Now why don’t you wish me to view your drawings? Or is it the list of requirements for a wife you seek to hide?” She smiled, the moonlight bleaching her usually tan complexion, the shadows highlighting the dimple on her left cheek.
The appearance of that dimple always meant mischief.
“It is no business of yours,” he ground out as he stepped closer.
“It was an accident that I read it,” she protested.
“But not an accident that you took it.” He reached behind her for the notebook.
“’Twas a happy accident, for now I can help you.”
To counter his searching hands, she threw her arms up and around his neck.
“I do not need your help in securing a wife.” He glared down at her.
Her face was a mere foot away and it was suddenly difficult to think. How had they ended up in a near embrace? He could smell her rosewater.
She cocked her head and blinked up at him as if she were seeing something new. He had never noticed the symmetry of her features before. His gaze fell on her full mouth. Small puffs of white lingered in the cold air between them. As if to examine her more closely, he drew forward.
“Touché,” she murmured and ducked her head. She released him and took several steps back. The cold air rushed between them, cooling his heated cheeks. “I do not need you to ravish me in the garden to prove your prowess.”
“Ravish you!”
“Shhh, do you wish to alert the entire party to our assignation?” she scolded. Her eyes twinkled, and the dimple flashed.
He tossed his head. All he had wanted was a respite from the heat and noise. How had any of this happened? Why was she even in the garden?
“Is that why you are here?” he asked aloud. “For an assignation?”
“Do you really want me to answer that?” She raised her eyebrows.
He swallowed. He really did not want to think of her in someone’s arms.
She grinned, her dimple flashing. “Well, then, Mr. Hartley”—she made an elaborate curtsey—“I will bid you good evening.” After a few steps, she turned back. “Please don’t follow me too closely. Only think of my reputation.”
He held back a growl as he dipped his head in acknowledgement of her request.
She nodded and continued down the path toward the light and warmth of the ballroom.
Not returning with her suited his purpose.
He would not be forced into marriage. And most certainly not to Miss Fenton.
Why, she was the antithesis of everything that he wanted in a wife.
Indeed, after speaking with her, he had half a mind to add “no dimples” to his requirements, for he was certain he could never see a dimple in a woman’s cheek and not be frustrated.
Only in thinking of his list did he realize her clever ruse.
She still had his notebook. She had used ridiculous claims of ravishing and assignations to distract him.
He groaned.
Should he race after the cursed woman and demand it back? But what if she made a fuss? What if people drew the wrong conclusions?
He would simply have to call on her and demand the return of his property. No doubt that is what she wanted. He ran a hand through his golden brown hair. Chasing after her was not worth it.
He would buy a new notebook. With his excellent memory he would likely be able to reconstruct most of what he had written down. It would be tedious but the effort well worth it to avoid Miss Fenton and her dimple.
A few moments later, he approached the open ballroom doors. Predictably, Miss Fenton was nowhere in sight. He breathed a sigh and hastened inside. Warmth and noise greeted him.
The Fitzherberts’ ballroom was done in a modern style but with extra adornments over the doors and false pillars along the walls. He rubbed his hands together to regain some feeling. In the future he would escape to an unused room instead of the frigid outdoors.
Before he could step farther into the room, Tristan Shepherd slipped beside him. Though identical to his brother Charles, Tristan was easily identified by his roguish grin. Rarely serious, he was always in high spirits in a ballroom.
“Why, Rosie, I did not think you so desperate.” Tristan’s brown eyes gleamed.
“I’d ask your meaning, but I fear it would only be nonsense,” Ambrose returned with a smile.
Tristan chuckled. “Very well, keep your secrets.” He leaned down to whisper. “I’ll only say that Miss Fenton is a very fine young lady.”
Heat flooded Ambrose. It seemed he had not been careful enough. Had Tristan seen them in the garden? Had anyone else witnessed their strange embrace?
His friend backed away.
Ambrose followed him. It was important that Tristan understand his position.
“I have a plan for securing my wife,” Ambrose hissed. “And I can assure you that Miss Susanna Fenton has no part in it.”
“You mean to tell me that she is not one of your candidates?” Tristan asked.
“Certainly not. I have chosen each lady after extensive research.”
Tristan chuckled. “So sentimental.”
Ambrose shrugged. “In my experience, sentiment is unreliable. I think my method sound. How will you find a wife?”
“My mother,” Tristan said lightly.
It was a better plan than Ambrose expected. At least it did not rely on falling in love. And one’s family could be objective in matching faults and strengths in a couple. Ambrose had considered asking his sisters to matchmake but ultimately decided he did not need help.
They paused. They had nearly reached the other side of the room. Tristan nodded at a lady, who smiled and blushed as she walked past them. The musicians were finding their seats. The break was nearing its end. The crowd started to stir as gentlemen moved to their partners for the next set.
“I wish you luck in your endeavors,” Tristan said. He took a few steps away before pausing and turning back. “And to be absolutely clear, you would not object to me pursuing Miss Fenton?”
“No objections, though I warrant she is immune to your charms.” Ambrose smirked.
He’d like to see Tristan try to capture the whirlwind that was Susanna Fenton.
Tristan chuckled as he walked away.
Though Ambrose was certain his friend was in jest, he could not help watching throughout the evening to see if Tristan approached Miss Fenton. This resulted in an inconvenient awareness of her location in the ballroom.
Once she met his gaze. He had looked away but not before she gestured to her full reticule and shot him a pleased smile complete with that dratted dimple.
After that he forced himself to stop looking. Who Miss Fenton danced with was none of his concern. He would not think of her for the rest of the evening and focus instead on his partners. After all, if he was to secure his wife he needed to put forth his best effort.