Prologue
Roland Nicolet, theDuke of Pelham, had reached a comfortable middle age blissfully unaware that most of his opinions were unusual, not quite correct, downright wrong, or otherwise wide of the mark. By no means was this an uncommon circumstance, as very rarely is a duke told he is mistaken on any matter. His elevated title left him to solely rely upon his own instincts.
Like others of his station, his estimation of his own discernment shone far more brilliant than it ought to have done.
The duke found it an exceedingly comfortable way of going on—rather like drifting pleasantly down a river with nary a ripple or current going against him.
This fine state of affairs might have gone on agreeably forever, had not his sister, Lady Penelope Marchfield, arrived to his estate in the Yorkshire Dales to see about his eldest daughter’s launch into society.
There would be quite a few of those launchings in the next years as there were seven of those feminine offspring haunting his halls. The duke’s poor wife had been ever hopeful of a son, but after the fifth girl, the duke had very sensibly given up the ghost.
His duchess had also been rather hopeful of the various temperaments these daughters would bring into the world, gamely naming them after virtues that would please.
That had been a pipe dream too. None of them remotely resembled their name and the last of them had been so lacking in courtesy as to send the duchess to her grave as a final rebuke to her optimistic naivete.
Final score in the baby-making games: zero runs and seven daughterly wickets.
Still, the duke had carried on bravely in the face of all seven of these dreadful setbacks. He did not explicitly tell any of his daughters that she was a dreadful setback, at least not when he was sober, but they got the idea well enough.
He happened to love them in his own original fashion, though he could not for the life of him figure out why. He certainly did not let on that he harbored any paternal feelings, lest that army of daughters take more advantage of him than they already did.
Now finally, he was poised to begin launching these seven daughters out the door and into the world. One by one, they’d be catapulted out of his house and into somebody else’s house through the time-honored tradition of marriage.
The duke had not known he would need assistance in unloading his daughters, until his sister, Lady Marchfield, had written and explained it all to him. According to her, no man could be expected to do a credible job of it. As the duke had to do it seven times, Lady Marchfield declared that he was on the verge of drowning in the societal seas.
The duke had replied to his deranged sister in a long and strongly worded letter. He was firmly in command of the family ship and there would be no drownings on societal seas whatsoever. There would not even be the faintest luffing of a sail. His ship would sail easily from ballroom to ballroom, heaving daughters over the side with abandon, as he expertly manned the helm.
That remarkable piece of writing was now stuffed in a desk drawer, as it had not had a moment to exit the house before Lady Marchfield stormed into it.
As a further shock to his sensibilities, the lady had not liked what she’d discovered when she arrived. The duke was to understand that all manner of things were wrong and must change. All manner of people were wrong and must change. Most incredible of all,hewas wrong and must change.
Every time he thought she must surely have come to the end of herwrongs and must changes, there was more.
His pleasant drifting down the river with no ripples on the water had come to an abrupt halt—his ship had run aground on the banks of Lady Marchfield’s sensibilities.
Chapter One
A Remote Estate in the Yorkshire Dales, 1801
Felicity Nicolet, eldestdaughter of the duke, pressed her finger over her lips at the six sisters trailing behind her. They had tiptoed down the stairs to listen at the drawing room doors.
Through the gap between the two doors, she could see Lady Marchfield pacing while her father lounged with his feet up.
“Lady Marching Orders is giving Papa another what-for,” she whispered to Grace.
Grace whispered the message to the twins—Patience and Serenity—who passed the message to Verity, who in turn told Winsome, who finally informed Valor.
Not a one of them was surprised, except perhaps Valor, who was generally surprised by everything. Their Aunt Penelope, known to the wider world as Lady Marchfield, had been giving out her complaints and orders since she’d set foot in the house.
The very first evening she’d arrived, the lady had been shocked that the girls all dined with their father. It was her opinion that Winsome and Valor should have their dinner in the nursery. As there was no nurse in the nursery, there was something faintly ridiculous about the idea.
Then, Lady Marchfield had been shocked when they’d all stayed on at table to keep the duke company while he sipped hisport. Further, she’d been shocked at the modes of conversation that took place between them during that pleasant hour.
The duke would tell his daughters that he could not wait to see the backs of them. He’d outline his plan to foist every one of them onto the nearest foolish gentleman and, once gone, they’d better not even return home for Christmas.
They would loudly accuse him of being a terrible liar. Grace would launch a roll at his head, which was perfectly safe, as she was exceedingly clumsy and that item never came anywhere near him. She occasionally hit a footman, though they did not mind, as they’d made it a bit of a game to lay bets on who would be struck down.
All of the duke’s daughters enjoyed these encounters exceedingly. Well, except for Valor, who had just turned seven and was of a skittish and worry-prone temperament. She took everything to heart and could not seem to recall that they’d had the very same nonsensical conversation the evening before.
