To Steal a Bride (Finders Keepers #6)

Chapter One

Oliver Beaumont, youngest son of the Earl of Shrewsbury, stared at his infuriatingly perfect older brother.

Henry, as always, was immaculately presented, encapsulating everything a viscount ought to be.

In contrast, Oliver slouched in his chair, his cravat rumpled and his coat stained after a long night.

Exhaustion tugged at him, not helped by the pounding in his head.

He had hoped to retire straight to bed, but Henry had summoned him to his study, no doubt ready to launch into a lecture.

Henry laced his fingers together. A poor start. When he did that, he was invariably planning some sort of horrific punishment, usually at Oliver’s expense.

“You,” Henry said, the words deliberate, “cannot continue in this way.”

“In what way?”

“Drunken. Foolish. Frittering away your allowance.”

Oliver scowled. This again. Ever since he had graduated from Oxford—just—two years ago, Henry had been on his case to find an occupation. Never mind that most young gentlemen who entered the law or took a living had certain attributes that Oliver would never have.

“Are you threatening to cut me off?” he demanded.

Henry held his gaze. The Beaumont blue eyes had never looked as severe on his brother as they did now. “I ought to. Louisa says you are still learning how to be a man, but when I was your age—”

“You needn’t remind me. When you were my age, you were serving in the army, commanding men and seeing horrors that my privileged mind cannot comprehend.

” Oliver rolled his eyes. “I am perfectly aware that I am a disappointment in every regard. But I simply do not see the need for you to force me into an occupation I am wholly unsuited for. All for the crime of being born the younger son.”

Henry gestured at the letters on his desk.

“Did you think an older son has no obligations? Every man has, though those responsibilities differ according to one’s position in the world.

Your misfortune, as you put it, has allowed you to live out of my pocket for two full years now. It’s time for that to change.”

“Ah, so you are cutting me off.” Oliver folded his arms, knowing he sounded like a petulant child but unable to see a way around it.

If he addressed the real reason he disliked the prospect of finding an occupation, he would have to admit to a secret Henry would find shameful and that would make him even more of a disappointment.

At least when he acted the idiot, that was a choice. He would always rather be perceived as a wastrel than incapable.

“And,” Oliver added, “when I marry, I will have a property of my own, so what is the pressing need for an occupation?”

Henry’s brows slashed down over his eyes.

He always appeared so stern. If Oliver had not known his true father was a drunken buffoon of a man who lurched through the clubs of London with an embarrassing lack of dignity, he might have presumed it to be the man before him.

Only a decade separated them, but it felt like far more.

“You are three-and-twenty,” Henry said. “And in order for you to support a wife adequately, you ought to have some concept of responsibility—which you currently lack. Louisa promised you a property out of her own fortune when you come to marry, but she made such a promise in the understanding that you would not be marrying immediately.”

Oliver’s head ached. He had indulged rather too freely the night before, ignorant of what conversation would follow. “And if I marry now, I would be ineligible to receive the estate?”

A muscle ticked in Henry’s jaw. “No,” he said at last. “Louisa merely trusted that you would have more sense.”

“More sense than not to claim my inheritance at the earliest available possibility?” Oliver spread his hands.

“Why this insistence on an occupation under these conditions? After all, an older son may do as he chooses, safe in the knowledge that he will inherit. Thanks to Louisa”—although he spoke mockingly, he had a great soft spot for his sister-in-law—“I will be granted an inheritance. Thus, I may behave as an older son might.”

“That was not the purpose of the inheritance.”

“Surely it was to provide security?” Oliver tilted his head. “The same security our father cannot provide for either of us.”

Their father was a man so consumed by vice that he had almost forgotten he had a family; he had gambled away his fortune, his daughters’ dowries, and would have gambled away the house had Henry and Nathanial, Oliver’s brother-in-law, not secured his properties between them.

Henry heaved a sigh. “What is the purpose of an inheritance when one does not have the responsibility to deal with it?”

Oliver dragged a hand through his hair, slouching further in his chair in an attempt to irritate Henry further.

All he wanted was to retire to bed and wake up in a new world where nothing of this nature was expected of him.

Oxford had been bad enough, staying up all night to parse the contents of a document he was obliged to study—only to emerge with an indifferent understanding of the text itself.

He had tried his hardest to write essays and dissertations, only for his tutors to rip apart his lack of understanding of spelling and grammar.

Everyone in the world thought he didn’t try, but all he had learnt was that trying got one nowhere; his inheritance, thanks to Louisa, was the only hope for his future. Otherwise, a man like him had no future. And he refused to play a game rigged against him.

“If you do not choose a path for yourself, I will have no choice but to cut you off from my financial support,” Henry said, an inflexible note entering his voice. “You may appeal to our father, of course, but he will have little enough to spare you.”

“You might have spared me the lecture and reached this point sooner. Am I to live on the streets, then?”

“I offered you my living,” Henry said, exasperated. A living that Oliver both did not want and could not take. What parson could not read or write with any degree of fluency? “And failing that, I know a solicitor you could clerk for. There could be a career in the law for you.”

“And then you would be proud of me?” Oliver sat up straighter, finally, spurred into anger by the rejection he had always known was coming.

Every man’s worth was dictated by his position in life—without position, and without ability, he had nothing.

“Or is such a thing an impossibility I should not wish for?”

Henry pinched his nose. Another bad sign—it meant he had reached the end of his limited patience. Oliver had seen that expression more than once over the course of his years. “I want you to do as every man must. Why is that so difficult?”

“Perhaps I will marry,” Oliver said, offering his brother a lazy smile he knew would infuriate. “Then this entire problem would cease to exist. Louisa will offer me a modest estate in the event of my marriage; thus, all I need do is bring her a wife.”

Henry pushed up from his chair, hands braced against the desk. “And who do you propose to marry? You have been to no ton events, and very few mothers would be eager for their daughters to marry the wastrel younger son of an earl.”

This was true; Oliver was an excellent flirt, well-practised in the art, but he had never been a serious target for anything more meaningful. When it came to marriage, all the pretty, spoilt brats of the ton wanted a man of means or a title. Preferably both.

Still, this was an obstacle he could overcome easily enough with some forethought. There were endless women in England—surely one would be amenable to marrying him.

“Fear not, brother,” he said, sweeping into a bow that made his head pound still further. “I shall contrive easily enough.”

“What will you do?”

Oliver gave a grin he didn’t feel. “Simple. I will marry the first lady who will have me.”

The village of Dalston held few charms, or so Oliver had assumed when he travelled north.

That, however, was before he spied the buxom beauty strolling along the road, a basket over her arm.

With her blonde hair, pert nose and pretty blue eyes, she was the very picture of country grace, and Oliver slowed his horse to a walk to better observe her.

He had been in the country for two days, having fled to Cumbria where his friend, Victor Prescott, was rusticating. Two days of exquisite boredom and nothing to do.

Until now.

The girl glanced up, sensing his attention. Her brow raised, and a calculating expression entered her eyes as she assessed him. He knew, instinctively, that this was precisely the girl he had thought of when he’d said to Henry he would marry the first girl that would have him.

He dismounted his borrowed horse and touched the brim of his hat. “Forgive the intrusion, but I couldn’t help noticing you were burdened by your basket. Allow me.”

She surrendered her basket, filled with muddy potatoes and the dusty leaves of cabbage. “You are too kind, sir. Are you new to the village? I usually recognise every face, but I confess to not recognising yours.”

“I arrived just two days ago.”

“From where?”

“London.”

A wistful look crossed her face. “I always wished I could go to London. I’ve lived in Dalston all my life, and it is so very far from the capital.”

“It was a damned long journey,” he agreed.

“Do you intend to stay long?”

“It rather depends.” Judging her receptive, he leant closer, lowering his voice. “I cannot return until I find a wife.”

“Oh!” The next look she offered him was both coy and assessing. “And do you have a lady in mind?”

“I hadn’t.” He let the words hang in the air, and she caught them with a sly, calculating smile.

Her dress was not pretty or fashionable, but she had a good figure, and she was startlingly beautiful.

A lady he could have on his arm proudly, but who would not be too prideful to wish for something more than the small estate he would inherit. Or so he hoped.

In short, provided she was amenable to his intentions—and he rather suspected she would be—she was perfect. He extended his hand. “Mr Beaumont, at your service.”

“Miss Isabella Brunton.” She placed her fingers delicately in his. “I hope we shall get to know each other better, sir.”

He brought her fingers to his lips. “I am quite certain we will.”