Prologue
ROLANDNICOLET, THEDuke of Pelham, father to seven daughters and zero sons, had spent his time at home after last season’s adventures congratulating himself that he’d managed to unload one of his offspring onto an unsuspecting gentleman by way of marriage. He looked forward to escorting the other six out of the house as soon as might be possible, though the youngest had just turned eight years old. He would take them all to Town, one by one, and heave them toward the nearest fellow passing by until his house was gloriously empty.
As he liked to say—his dream was within reach.
Anyone who was at all familiar with the duke, and in particular his seven daughters, named it all nonsense. The duke was a notorious liar, his fabrications generally serving no other purpose than providing him entertainment. His children found that quality highly diverting, though thetondid not laugh quite as long and hard.
The duke’s sister, Lady Marchfield, a well-respected countess, perhaps found the duke even less congenial than most. Her brother was determined to enrage her at every turn, which he inexplicably found hilariously funny. She, though, was intent on bringing a modicum of rationality to his house in Town and ensuring that her nieces were settled sensibly and with a minimum of gossip.
The duke’s first foray into the world of London’s marriage mart had been a series of twists and turns, and going forwards and backwards, and had even found a Bengal tiger on the loose. He’d been delighted with the whole thing, as it had been far more interesting than he’d ever hoped for.
Now, his Felicity was happily settled with Mr. Percy Stratton while Grace was the next in line. The duke anticipated a fascinating time of it, as his second eldest daughter had the unique ability to trip over her own two feet. If there was an ottoman in the same county, Grace would make it her business to find it and fling herself over it. Dogs and cats rushed to get under her feet. She had a small and fading scar on her right hand from misjudging how many stairs must be gone down to go to breakfast. On that particular occasion, she’d only been off by one step, but that had been sufficient.
She would require a rather stalwart fellow who did not mind finding his bride splayed on the floor on occasion.
The duke was confident on the point that any future son-in-law of his must be stalwart. All of them, whoever they might turn out to be, had better at least be stalwart. The duke had the unique ability to take the measure of a person and then send them through a mangle like any washerwoman squeezing water from wet sheets. Mr. Percy Stratton had been put through his own mangle and come out the other side relatively intact. The duke would be interested in seeing who Grace’s candidate turned out to be.
He could not predict exactly how the thing would play out, but he would shortly find it out—bags were being packed and arrangements made. In two days’ time they would depart their isolated estate on the Yorkshire moors, open the house on Grosvenor Square, and assault London society with the company of the Nicolet family once more.
Chapter One
A Remote Estate in the Yorkshire Dales, 1802
GRACENICOLET, SECONDeldest daughter of the Duke of Pelham, threw a roll across the dining table toward her father’s head. The duke had just joked, as he often liked to do, that he’d be rid of them all at his earliest convenience and would not even allow them home for Christmas.
As always when this threat was floated, Patience remarked that he’d have no choice but to let them in because she would break down the doors with a hatchet. Grace, for her part, was in the habit of hurling a roll in his direction.
She could not work out why she never hit him with it, though. Her rolls always seemed to go astray and they often hit a footman instead. It was not as if the footmen minded it, she knew they laid bets on who would be hit, but she would like to know why her aim was so terrible, even when she threw it right at him.
Or at least, where she thought he’d been. People and things had a habit of moving this way or that.
This time it had been Charlie struck with her floury missile, and he snorted over it.
“Wide of the mark as always, Gracie,” the duke said with a laugh. “I do not even bother to flinch or duck when you take aim.”
“Maybe you should practice throwing rolls, Grace?” her youngest sister suggested. “I have been practicing my sewing and it has got ever so much better. I sewed for an entire ten minutes today and only stabbed myself three times.”
“I will keep that in mind, Valor,” Grace said. What she did not say was that shehadpracticed. She could not understand how other people were so skilled at such things. How did other people manage it when that odd feeling came over them and everything moved this way and that, and their eyes could not keep up with where everything was? She sometimes ended on the floor at those moments. Most of the time though, she just went through the world a little tipped over and unbalanced.
It was a fault made worse by her name. Why had she been named Grace? It was the worst possible name she could have been given. She lived in a dread that she would be noticed as clumsy in Town, and then people would laugh because of her name. Mrs. Wenchel had once remarked that it was ironic.
Grace had no wish to be ironic!
The dessert course had come out and with it her father’s bottle of port. Lady Marchfield would be shocked to her shoes that they stayed at table with her father as he drank. Their aunt had told them in no uncertain terms that it was not done. Ladies were meant to retire while gentlemen might take a reasonably sized glass of port for a reasonable amount of time before rejoining the ladies in the drawing room.
There were several problems with that theory, as Lady Marchfield had seen for herself. One, the duke never stuck to anything reasonable, two, he did not like to get drunk alone, and three, he got far more drunk whenever hewasleft alone.
He sipped his port contentedly and gazed down the table at his daughters. “I received two letters today,” he said, “one was from our Felicity.”
“Oh, what does she say, Papa?” Patience asked.
“She says she is wildly happy, I am sure,” Verity said.
Winsome turned to her. “How would you know? You are not there. She might be wildly unhappy for all we know of it.”
“Do not say so, Winsome,” Serenity said. “I could just cry to think of it.”
“She’s perfectly happy,” the duke said. “She says Stratton is a brick and she’s got his temperamental viscount in hand. Hah! I knew she’d take Sir Pineapple by the throat and shake some rationality into him.”
