Chapter One
London
May, 1821
Weary of trying to find an acceptable bride, Simon Garrison Nugent, Earl of Fielding, had ceased all attempts at marriage and was currently steering clear of debutantes. Instead, he chose to pass his evenings with friends.
At his age of three and thirty, marriage was expected. He knew it had to happen soon if he was to maintain his dignity. After all, the longer he remained unattached, the more it looked like he’d not yet recovered from losing his fiancée to another man.
It had been three years since the incident, yet it still rankled.
Gabriella, now the Duchess of Huntley, would have made the perfect countess. The very idea of her choosing an ill-bred ruffian, even if he did happen to have a prestigious title, was bad enough without Simon having to worry about what people would think of the next bride he picked. She would have to be at least as high born, graceful, and accomplished as Gabriella. Raised to manage large households and host grand events with natural flair, the Duchess of Huntley had proven herself to be an undeniable asset to her husband. Unfortunately, Simon had not yet found another lady who compared.
Seated in a quiet corner of White’s together with Baron Hawthorne and the Earl of Yates, Simon sipped his brandy and tried to force his thoughts away from the past by focusing on what Yates was saying.
“It was never meant to get this out of hand,” Yates explained while looking precisely like the sort of man whose neck was being squeezed by a noose. He was a good fellow – one of the few who seemed to tolerate Simon’s company – though sadly too kind for his own good, seeing as he’d gotten tangled up with an untitled woman who lacked a dowry and connections. “All I meant to do was help the girl. She’s a friend of my sister’s, after all.”
“If every man with a sister offered to step out with all her unremarkable friends, he’d have gotten himself engaged a dozen times over,” Baron Hawthorne muttered. He tossed back the remainder of his drink and poured himself another. “It’s your own damn fault for being too nice.”
“He’s right, you know,” Simon said.
Stretching out his legs, he crossed them at the ankles and cradled his snifter between his hands while pondering Yates’s dilemma. Apparently there had been a compromising situation which just happened to have been witnessed by a group of matrons hoping to find a reprieve from the stuffy ballroom.
Simon sighed. “The trouble is,” he said, deciding to meet Yates's gaze dead on, “hell, the trouble has always been, that she's not your equal. Socially, I mean.”
“Well done, Fielding,” Hawthorne said with a smirk. “It’s always good to know you’ll remind us of what’s acceptable.”
Simon fought the urge to roll his eyes. “Tell me I'm wrong.” His demand was, as expected, met by silence. Not even Yates attempted to argue. “Miss Harlowe is not countess material. This doesn't mean she cannot be perfectly lovely, but no matter how you turn it, she'll always be born into the wrong family.”
There was a heavy moment of silence, and then Hawthorne asked, “Has your outlook on life always been this sunny?”
Simon snorted. “I’m just trying to be realistic. If Yates marries Miss Harlowe, he will no longer be welcome in certain circles, people will talk, and his life as he knows it will be forever changed, which I very much doubt is something he wants.”
“From determined wife hunter to cynical loner,” Yates murmured, his narrowed eyes fixed on Simon with interest. “Don’t think I’ve forgotten your eager pursuit of Gabriella Matthews. Hell, you were even engaged to her for what, ten seconds or so, roughly four years ago?”
“The Duchess of Huntley?” Hawthorne inquired with wide eyes. “I don’t recall that at all.”
“Three,” Simon clipped. “It was three years ago.”
“You must not have been at the Coventry Ball that season,” Yates said to Hawthorne. “Fielding announced the betrothal – even kissed Gabriella before one and all – only to let the whole thing fizzle away into nothing. A short while later, Huntley and Gabriella were married, and you,” Yates tilted his almost empty glass in Simon’s direction, “haven’t proposed to anyone since.”
“Perhaps because I haven’t met anyone else worth asking,” Simon said.
Yates leaned back, his expression suddenly distant and thoughtful.
“I think you need to fall in love,” Hawthorne told Simon with a grin.
“God forbid,” Simon muttered. Worrying over his future was difficult enough without throwing love into the