Chapter 1
Chapter One
London, England
Bloody Charles.
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’t afford to 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 firelight and 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 to three of 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 to choose 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 letters and 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 to consider 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.
“James,” Tristan said, crossing the room and pulling his friend into a strong embrace. “It has been too many years. You’re quite dark now.”
“My hair is lighter, too. So many days on a ship will do that to a man.” James flashed his nearly straight teeth.
“Come in. Take a seat. Would you like something to drink?”
He swaggered across the room and lowered himself in a plush yellow chair. “I wouldn’t refuse a bit of fortification.”
Tristan glanced at Miller, who gave a slight nod of acknowledgment before leaving to fetch refreshment. He was a good butler, had been ruler of this house for as long as Tristan had been alive, and knew the undercurrents within Marblegate as well as in London as a whole.
James let out a long sigh. “Where is Charles these days?”
“Leg-shackled, actually. He’s found himself a wife.”
James pulled a face, his blue eyes disappearing as he shook his head. “Too many good men have succumbed of late. My mother would like for me to join their ranks.”
“Is there any mother who feels differently?” Tristan asked.
“Perhaps not. It’s why I’ve been summoned to London. Father remained behind in Antigua, but I was no longer able to postpone matrimony.”
“It is an understandable request, is it not? Your parents should like you to give them heirs.”
“Do not remind me.”
Miller returned with a decanter of amber-colored liquid and two glasses on a tray. He poured a small amount in each and carried them forward. James accepted his glass and brought it to his nose.
“To finding wives,” Tristan said, lifting his glass.
James choked on a laugh. “Not you, as well?”
“It would be wise for me to settle down, I think.”
“Too many flirts on your trail?”
Since James wasn’t agreeing to the toast, Tristan lowered his glass and took a sip.
It lit a fiery path down his throat and warmed his stomach.
“Just the right amount, actually. No…” He looked in his glass, his mind smoothing over the turbulent thoughts jumping about.
Flirts? He didn’t have any of those, not truly.
“I suppose there has been no one serious. No woman I would take home to Surrey.”
“No one worthy of the great Tristan Shepherd?”
He scoffed. “You know very well I do not esteem myself above my station. I need only to find a woman who will happily pass an afternoon at my side, adores horses, and will not tire after one dance.”
“Then my sister is not an agreeable choice.” James tipped back the rest of his drink and signaled Miller to fill it again.
Sister? It took a moment for the girl in question to come to mind.
Miss Whitby was too young for matrimony, was she not?
She certainly could not abide riding, always finding the horses too smelly and the activity to be a waste of time.
If Tristan recalled correctly, Caroline Whitby had preferred reading alone and painting her watercolors to any outdoor pursuits with the men.
She’d been pale as a result, her dark hair highlighting the lack of color in her face.
When she did join them, she would merely follow them about, climbing trees or playing in the fields.
The woman would do far better with a bookish man.
“I hope to find someone at the ball tonight,” Tristan said. “I’ll know I’ve the right woman when she dances a set without tiring and laughs despite modish coquettishness being the norm.”
James sat up, holding out his glass while Miller poured in another dram.
“That was the very reason I dropped in. I thought I’d have to convince you to come along with me tonight.
The very idea of being shoved into a stuffy ballroom and playing coy to all the blasted mothers is enough to make me drink the entire decanter. ”
“Don’t,” Tristan warned. “Or you shall be sleeping it off here instead.”
James lifted his drink in tandem with his eyebrows. “Precisely.”
Tristan chuckled, shaking his head. “Which ball is it you want to attend? I’d finally settled on Miss Longren’s debut.”
James wrinkled his nose. “Don’t know the lady, but a debutante sounds far too…young, I suppose. We’re for Lady Petunia’s affair.”
“Will it not be full of stuffy aristocrats?” Tristan asked.
James lifted an eyebrow. “We were invited, were we not?”
“I suppose.”
James gave him a pleading look. “Don’t force me to go it alone, Tristan.”
It seemed a pointless endeavor for Tristan to attend when most of the marriageable women were of the haute ton, just out of reach, but there was something to be said for attending with a friend.
Tristan swallowed the rest of his drink and placed his cup on the small occasional table with a faint clink.
He nodded slowly. “Very well. I shall attend Lady Petunia’s ball.
But if all the women are snobbish, I’m leaving to try my luck with the debutantes. ”
“All fair,” James agreed, his golden hair flopping forward as he nodded. “If that is the case, I’ll go with you.”
“You’re taking your mother’s plea seriously.”
“I must.” He stared at his glass a moment, the empty cup making his blue eyes large and round. “My father had a few bad seasons.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
James shrugged. “It’s nothing a rich wife won’t fix.”
Coming from his mouth, it sounded vulgar, but Tristan couldn’t deny feeling much the same way. Now, if one of the women he danced with came with a good sense of humor, a decent dowry, and a love of both London and horses, she would be perfect.
It shouldn’t be too difficult a feat, surely.