1
ENGLAND,1814
LORDCHARLESBROOKSBANKleaned his shoulder against the column in the ballroom as he watched his brother and new sister-in-law dance the opening set. It was evident how much they cared for each other by the enamored looks on their faces.
That is what he wanted, to fall irrevocably in love with someone. But he was starting to give up hope that he would ever find a woman who would pique his interest. He had been swayed by many beautiful faces over the years, but he found most to be quite dull as he grew to know them, especially when they resorted to polite conversational topics. After all, how could you ever truly get to know someone else when you were forced to only discuss the weather or state of the gardens?
A servant walked by with a tray of champagne and Charles reached for one. At least he could drown his sorrows with something to drink. He wasn’t terribly unhappy; he was just lonely. Perhaps he should seek out Lady Berkshire and her sisters. A matchmaker might solve all his problems. Or it could create a myriad of new ones. Frankly, he wasn’t sure what the right answer was, but he knew it was time for him to grow serious about finding a bride.
He saw his dark-haired friend, Lord Brixton, break through the crowd and approach him. “Why the solemn face?” he asked.
Charles took a sip of his drink. “I am dreading the remainder of this ball.”
“That is not good, since it has only just begun.”
“I am well aware.”
Brixton turned his attention towards Roswell and Ellie in the center of the room. “Your brother seems happy.”
“That he does.”
Brixton grinned. “I never thought I would see the day that Roswell fell prey to the parson’s mousetrap.”
“I must agree with you, but Ellie is his match.”
Brixton’s eyes scanned the room. “I have noticed many new faces this evening.”
“Is that so?” Charles asked, feigning interest.
“It is,” Brixton said. “A new Season always brings a fresh crop of wide-eyed debutantes with dreams of securing an advantageous marriage.”
Charles gulped down the rest of his drink. “I am not interested in a debutante.”
“Whyever not?”
“They are barely out of the schoolroom, and it is painful to attempt a conversation with them.”
Brixton chuckled. “If she has a beautiful face, then what else matters?”
“I don’t wish to be shackled to a woman who is dull.”
“Your standards are too high.”
“I contend that they are not.”
The music came to an end, and Charles watched as Roswell escorted his wife off the chalked dance floor.
Brixton turned to face him. “Have you secured a dance partner for the next set?”
“I have not.”
“Then let’s go find you one.”
Charles placed his empty glass onto the tray of a passing servant. “I think I am going to sit this one out.”
Brixton eyed him curiously. “Are you ill?”
“No. Why do you ask?”
