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.
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