Chapter One
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 was not jealous. 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 course Rotherfeld was smitten; what wasn’t to like?
Fletcher was not jealous. 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.”
“You don’t believe me.”
“I do believe you are happy for her. But who will you take to the opera now?”
Fletcher sighed. His not-so-secret love of opera had been developed over the course of many years of accompanying Louisa, who also loved it.
They would talk at length about the music, the costumes, the spectacle.
But there was something… unmanly about loving opera, so Fletcher had complained, apparently unconvincingly, to his friends about having to attend so often.
“I imagine I will find someone. Perhaps I should. I seem to have become the last man standing. Maybe it’s time for me to find a potential wife candidate to escort to the opera.”
Hugh chuckled. “You use a tone as if you must now go to the rookeries to contract leprosy. Besides, Lark is still unmarried.”
“He’s married to a bottle these days.”
“Indeed. Quite the spectacle he made of himself tonight.”
“I think I managed to get him outside before he did too much damage.”
Hugh sighed. “I’m worried about him.”
“I know.”
“I think I had not considered all the ways love can wreck a man.”
Fletcher turned to Hugh, who was looking out at the garden. “What do you mean?”
“When I met Adele, I would have moved heaven and Earth to be with her. Luckily, I did not have to. She and our son are the greatest things in my life. But Lark has not been so fortunate, and he had to watch the person he loves marry someone else last year. I thought he would be better by now, that he’d make his peace and move on, but I’m afraid he’s more miserable than ever. ”
“Yes.”
“I am perhaps not making a compelling argument for courtship.”
Fletcher laughed ruefully. “I will admit that now that I’ve inherited the title, I feel a bit more pressure to find a wife.
” Well, perhaps more accurately, Fletcher’s father’s death had brought home for him that life was finite, that he could not fritter away his best years on frivolity.
Fletcher had been content to live a life of leisure, until recently.
He could not put off making his own family indefinitely.
Hugh nodded. “I was young enough when my father passed that I was perhaps better able to resist that pressure.”
“You and Owen both seem happy. Louisa seems happy. I’d like to find some of that happiness for myself.”
“A worthy endeavor.”
“But it’s not as easy as saying, ‘I’d like a wife now.’”
“Oh, I don’t know about that. I think if you walked back into that ballroom and started a whisper campaign that the Marquess of Greystone is ready to marry, a line of eligible debutantes would form rather quickly.”
Fletcher groaned. He didn’t want an eligible debutante. He wanted a partner in life, someone with some brains and a sense of humor, someone he could have conversations about literature and, yes, opera with. Someone like Louisa, frankly. But… not Louisa.
“Come back inside,” said Hugh. “Find some beautiful woman to dance with. Drink and be merry.”
Fletcher downed the rest of his whiskey. “Yes, all right.”
* * *
Louisa hadn’t wanted to announce her engagement in so public a setting. That Daniel insisted on it still puzzled her. It seemed gauche to create a spectacle.
The look on Fletcher’s face would be seared into her mind for a very long time.
She was in the center of a crowd of women slowly losing her mind as everyone tittered and congratulated her.
Daniel Woodbine, the Duke of Rotherfeld, was one of the most eligible men in the ton.
Handsome, wealthy, and an accomplished scientist. He’d parlayed a hobby of birdwatching into further scientific study and now sat on the board of the Royal Society of Ornithology.
He and Louisa had discussed the mechanics of flight at length—the physics of it were fascinating—although Louisa was less interested in the birds themselves.
Still, it was an impressive package, everything Louisa wanted in a husband.
She should have been happier.
They’d been courting on and off for almost a year.
Sort of. Louisa had spent the summer at her family’s home near Bristol, and Daniel had only found time to visit her once, so she felt like most of the hot months didn’t really count.
She was… fond of Daniel, but she didn’t love him.
Her mother kept insisting that would come in time.
Louisa believed it. After all, Daniel was very nice to look at—an athletic figure, curly blond hair that swept rakishly over his forehead, sparkling blue eyes, and a dazzling smile—but he was also kind and clever, and marriage to him would mean she’d live in luxury for the rest of her life.
She didn’t really care about the luxury, but it was nice.
Daniel owned a well-appointed townhouse in London, but he also had a sprawling estate in Shropshire, near the Welsh border.
Louisa had not actually seen it yet, but Daniel’s sister assured her that it was beautiful.
But the look on Fletcher’s face.
She sipped from a glass of lemonade and looked around the room while accepting congratulations from the women around her. Fletcher and Swynford entered the ballroom.
Fletcher looked nice tonight. He wore a fine blue jacket that she thought might be new. He’d combed his hair into the style that was currently fashionable, forward and over his forehead. Swynford, whose wife had become a close friend of Louisa’s, said something to Fletcher that made him laugh.
She didn’t think she’d imagined it. When Daniel had banged his pocket watch against his glass to get the attention of everyone in the ballroom and announced that Lady Louisa had consented to be his wife, Fletcher had looked stricken.
By coincidence, he was right in Louisa’s line of sight when Daniel made his announcement.
Fletcher quite looked like he’d been punched directly in the sternum.
Then he closed his eyes and left the room.