CHAPTER ONE
Leighton Somerset, Viscount Sheffield, leafed through a stack of papers and bills. Poised behind an elegant Louis XV desk, he leaned back in his chair and crossed his long legs at the ankles. London’s late-afternoon sun shone through the tall windows, casting a warm glow over his blond hair, recently ruffled by an absent stroke of his hand. With a sigh of disgust, he cast aside the missives and rang for his secretary.
A trim, middle-aged man of good countenance appeared soon after the summons and inclined his head. “Yes, my lord?’
“I need a list of the most eligible young women of substance.”
“My lord?” Mr. Parker’s eyebrows traveled up his forehead.
“We are going heiress-hunting.”
“If I may inquire?” Parker’s voice was laced with disapproval. “To what purpose will we be pursuing the, ah... females in question?”
“Why, Parker, I am shocked at your insinuation,” Sheffield said, feigning effrontery. “Nothing but marriage, I assure you.”
Parker’s features immediately softened from an expression of distaste to one of gentle concern. “Has it come to that, my lord?”
Sheffield frowned. “I am afraid so,” he said, a sweep of his hand taking in the documents littering his desk. “Father’s latest spree at Brighton has done us up.”
“Surely the earl has not indulged in gambling again?” Parker asked, his tone betraying the answer to his own question.
Sheffield made a low sound of amusement. “Indulgence does not describe what has become his habit, along with brandy and opera dancers half his age.” With a movement of his wide shoulders, the viscount tried to shrug off this last in a history of disappointing actions from his sire.
“I gather he lost all but Grayhaven itself to Lord Braxton, leaving nothing with which to pay these creditors—who are already losing their patience.” Sheffield frowned at the desk’s burden, then looked up at Parker, who appeared too distressed to speak.
“Cheer up, Parker! It is high time I wed, is it not?” Sheffield said, straightening up in his chair. When his secretary only looked glumly at the floor, Sheffield smiled. “Run along now, and let us see what treasure of womanhood you can find for me. And tell Morgan that I will be dressing to go out this evening. I’ll be looking in at White’s and then... I’ve a desire to visit Almack’s.”
The shocked look that appeared on his secretary’s face at the mention of those particular assembly rooms, notorious for catering to the marriage-minded, sent Sheffield rocking back in his chair with a soft peal of laughter.
Despite Parker’s seeming disapproval, the secretary presented a list to Sheffield as he was dressing for the evening. His neckcloth dangling carelessly, Sheffield walked through the dressing room to the bedroom, where blue silk damask-covered walls surrounded an enormous bed draped in brocade. Sheffield dropped into a chair, crossed his feet and began to read aloud.
“Emily Farnsworth,” he said, choking out the name that topped the list. His gaze shot to Parker, who stood stiffly at his side as Sheffield voiced his objection. “She resembles a giant toad.”
“Quite so, my lord,” Parker replied stoically, while Morgan, Sheffield’s long-suffering valet, tried to salvage the master’s neckcloth. The viscount waved the man away as he continued reading.
“Caroline Bridgeman. Hmm,” Sheffield said softly, raising one lean finger to his lips.
“Ahem.” Parker cleared his throat, and Sheffield looked up with a frown.
“Yes, speak up, Parker, before you burst.”
“Miss Bridgeman, though she has never married, is rumored to be... quite free with her favors,” Parker said, his disapproval apparent.
“I see.” Sheffield nodded and returned his attention to the paper, slowly tapping his finger against his chin.
“Ann Worthington! Really, Parker, she must have twoscore years on me.”
Parker shrugged. “She is an heiress, sir, and certainly available.”
“Arabella Russell!”
“A lovely girl, and quite well-mannered, I am told,” Parker said.
“And equipped with a giggle that sets my hair on end,” Sheffield said irritably. This business was not going at all as he had planned, and he was beginning to suspect that Parker was enjoying his discomfiture. He glanced down at the next name. “Melissa Hampton. Hmm...”
“My lord, she—” Parker began, but Sheffield held up his hand to signal a halt.
For a moment, no one spoke. Then Sheffield’s lips curved into a smile. “Very well, Parker, if you must speak, then do so. But watch what you say, for you are talking about my future bride.” With those words, he rose from his seat, tossed the list casually onto the bed, and proceeded to tie his neckcloth.
Parker shook his head, leaving unspoken whatever objections he might have had.
White’s was crowded, making it easier for Sheffield to ignore the stares as he walked through the club. He intended to behave as he always did, but it soon became apparent that his friends did not share that sentiment. He had not gone far when he saw Sir Charles Waverly, looking as though he had lost a relative. At his side was the taller and more elegantly dressed Mr. Robert Smythe. Too sophisticated to show his concern, he nonetheless surged forward to greet Sheffield with undue enthusiasm.
“The whole place is talking about it, of course,” he said grimly.
Waverly was not so subtle. “Is it as bad as they’re saying?” he asked, his round face red with distress.
Smythe frowned at his companion before returning his attention to the viscount. “Braxton’s been here, making more of it, I’m sure.”
“What will you to do?” Waverly asked. “Why, the thought of someone else in Grayhaven is preposterous. If only every estate could be entailed forever! Why didn’t your grandfather renew the entail or set up a new one or whatever he needed to do to keep the place in the family for another how many generations?”
Sheffield didn’t flinch at the words. Instead, he flashed his usual smile, not only at the friends who pressed him, but toward those in the room who eyed him with curiosity. Most glanced away once they saw his carefree demeanor, some shaking their heads in amazement at the ability of the Somersets to land on their feet. They were an old family, founded by Grayson Somerset, who received the title earl of Graystone in 1623. And over the years they were bound to engender their fair share of envy, if not enmity.
Now Sheffield noticed a few disappointed faces among the crowd. There were always those prepared to take advantage of another’s misfortune, whether by gossiping or assuming a vacated place in the social sphere. No doubt, some already were plotting how to profit from the family’s downfall and hoping some land or other holdings could be had cheaply. Ignoring them, Sheffield steered his friends to a quiet corner.
“The earl has not lost Grayhaven, and I intend to make certain that he never does.”
“And how are you to do that, short of locking the old man up?” Smythe asked while they settled into a grouping of armchairs far from the card rooms.
“And what about Braxton?” Waverly sputtered.
“Ah, yes, Lord Braxton,” Sheffield said. “He was here?”
“The obnoxious buffoon. He’s to blame for all the attention,” Smythe said with a nod toward the other men in the room. Engaged once again in their own conversations, they appeared to have lost interest in Sheffield’s troubles for the moment. “He breezed in early, bragging of his winnings from the earl, and everyone knows—”
“Everyone knows that my father can ill afford any more debt,” Sheffield finished with a slight grimace.
“Well, Braxton isn’t exactly well liked. Quite a few refused to listen to him, and Lord Montebank chastened him soundly,” Smythe said with a smile.
“Oh, you should have seen it,” Waverly said. “The old codger brandished his case and took Braxton to task right in front of his fellows. ‘What an accomplishment,’ Montebank said. ‘Winning money from Graystone is akin to taking sweets from an infant. It’s easy, but mean-spirited. Do you take pride in that, man?’”
Waverly chuckled at the anecdote until he caught Smythe’s frosty glare. “Well, ah, not the sort of thing to repeat, I imagine,” he mumbled sheepishly.
Sheffield shrugged. “I have become used to tales of my father’s doings.”
Waverly breathed a sigh of relief. “I would think so, especially after that episode last year with the blonde from Covent Garden.”
“The earl’s easy prey for the gossips,” Smythe broke in. “I think he enjoys the fuss he stirs up.”
“Undoubtedly,” Sheffield said with a smile. “That is half the fun for him. Unfortunately, his increasing efforts to top himself are leading him—and, consequently, me—to ruin.”
“What’s to be done?” Smythe asked.
“You can’t lose Grayhaven!” Waverly moaned.
“I have no intention of forfeiting Grayhaven,” Sheffield said.
“You have a plan!” Waverly said with a gasp.
“What is it?” asked Smythe skeptically.
“My friends, congratulations are in order,” Sheffield said, leaning back in his chair to watch their faces. “I am getting married.”
“Really?” Waverly asked in astonishment.
“You mean it,” Smythe said.
“Of course, I mean it,” Sheffield said. “And why should I not wed? I am more than of age. It is time I got some heirs.”
“From your smirk, I imagine the poor wench is comely,” Smythe said. “Who is she?”
“Someone with piles of money,” Waverly said.
“Yes,” Sheffield said. “My future bride is blessed not only with beauty, but with a fortune, too.”
“Good Lord, man, not Caroline Bridgeman,” Smythe said, starting forward in his seat.
“No.”
“Arabella Russell,” Waverly said. “She’ll make a sweet little bride for you!”
“No,” Sheffield said. “You are both wrong. Have you no eyes, gentlemen?” He smiled, remembering the last time he’d seen his future viscountess. “I speak of none other than Melissa Hampton.”
Waverly’s hopeful expression faded away, while Smythe laughed scornfully. “The Lady Disdain?” Smythe asked, shaking his head. “If that’s your scheme, you might as well put up the estate. You’ll get nowhere with that one.”
“Why?” Sheffield asked. Was she promised to another? He felt a stirring of something indefinable, along with a sharp stab of possessiveness. He’d never even met Miss Hampton, and yet, he already thought of her as his wife. The others on his list were unacceptable, while something about Miss Hampton made her the right one. The only one.
“Why?” Waverly said. “She has turned down half the fortune hunters in Town and scared away the rest with her sharp tongue. She’s a termagant!”
“As though you would know,” Smythe said, dismissively. “I cannot vouch for her disposition, but she has not received the title Lady Disdain for her warmth.”
“How intriguing,” Sheffield murmured, raising a forefinger to rub it thoughtfully against his chin. Pleased that no one else had claimed Miss Hampton’s hand, he had no doubts about his own chances of success. The news that his quarry had discerning tastes just made her all the more desirable.
“You can remove the smug grin from your notoriously charming visage,” Smythe said. “Despite your reputation among the fairer sex, this is one female you will fail to win, I’ll wager.”
“Would you?” Sheffield asked, with a lift of his brows.
“Oh, no,” Smythe said, shaking his head. “I won’t rob you of funds you do not have.”
“I’ll wager!” Waverly said.
“Remember that unlike my father, I never make a bet unless I am certain of the outcome,” Sheffield said.
Waverly snorted. “So you may think. But I say you will never have the lady’s affections.”
“And if I wed her?” Sheffield asked.
“Even if you don’t have a feather to fly with, her family might not refuse a future earldom,” Smythe said, sending Waverly a warning glance.
But Waverly would not be dissuaded. “I did not say I would wager against the marriage. It is the lady’s heart you must win,” he said slyly. “If she has one.”
“Well?” Smythe asked, looking from one man to another.
Sheffield grinned. “Bring on the betting book,” he said. “But hurry, my friends. I must rush, if I am to make Almack’s before they close the doors.”
“Almack’s?” Waverly asked, as if horror-stricken.
“Why, naturally,” Sheffield said. “Where else am I to be introduced to my future bride?”
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