Page 1 of The Mister I Married

Chapter One

LONDON, EARLY MAY 1822

Lady Emmaline Keswick —Emmy to her familiars—knew as well as the next person that frowning openly in a crowded ballroom was generally, well, frowned upon. Sometimes, however, like now, a frown was the only appropriate reaction one could possibly give.

“Unscrupulous rat,” she muttered under her breath as she crossed her arms over the beaded bodice of her ivory satin gown in yet another social faux pas.

Much too annoyed to feel guilty over it, her gaze riveted on the couple gliding across Mrs. Dalrymple’s glossy parquet floor, keeping time with the orchestra’s Vienna waltz.

The rat in question, Lord Harry Monroe, a viscount and unrepentant fortune-hunter, smiled down at his dance partner as if she were the loveliest creature he’d ever laid eyes on, eliciting a pretty blush from the auburn-haired girl that was visible even from across the room.

Emmy huffed out a breath of disgust. Not because she disagreed—she’d met Miss Tess Whitcomb only a sennight ago, but the girl seemed everything sweet and lovely and any man would be lucky to win her hand in marriage.

No, her disgust lay solely with Lord Monroe. The man was not to be trusted, and she knew she must warn Miss Whitcomb at the earliest opportunity. This was the young lady’s first London Season, so she would not have seen the viscount’s repeated attempts at ensnaring a bride last year—any bride, so long as she came with a sizable dowry. That he hadn’t yet managed to tempt—or trap—some unsuspecting innocent into marriage was no small miracle and Emmy simply could not stand back and watch while Miss Whitcomb fell victim to his so-called charms.

“Darling, do wipe that frown from your lips,” Lady Lavinia Keswick whispered as she sidled up beside Emmy, startling her from her reverie. “You look like an unhappy infant on the verge of a temper tantrum. It is not an attractive expression.”

Emmy hastily dropped her arms to her sides and smoothed her features before turning to meet her mother’s disapproving blue gaze. “Apologies, Mother,” she said with appropriate regret in her voice. “I forgot myself. Lord Monroe is here this evening, and it appears he has set his sights on Miss Whitcomb.”

Lady Keswick sighed as she tugged at her gloves, the lavender silk a perfect match to her gown and the beaded clips adorning her dark brown hair. “And I suppose it is too much to hope that this displeases you because you want the gentleman for yourself?”

Emmy blanched. “Gads, I would rather eat dirt.”

Her mother’s delicate black brows dipped. “Please, dear, do watch your language. Slang is not becoming in a genteel young lady.”

This was undoubtedly true, but Emmy had never been as genteel as she ought to be and never would. Saying so would be a waste of breath, however, for she knew her mother would never cease wishing she were a better lady than she was.

“It displeases me because his interest in her is not what she wants it to be,” she said, ignoring her mother’s scolding as she so often did. “He only wants her for her dowry.”

“It is not unusual for a gentleman to marry for money, as you well know,” Lady Keswick replied. “And their union would make her a viscountess. That is no small boon.”

“But Miss Whitcomb is so young and sweet.” Her gaze sought out the young woman on the dance floor, still peering up at Lord Monroe with a shy smile on her lips. “It is obvious she is hoping for a love match and her innocence makes her especially vulnerable to fortune-hunters like him. I do not wish to see her harmed.”

Lady Keswick sighed again. “I suppose there would be no point in my asking you to mind your own business.”

Emmy shot her mother an impish smile. “None whatsoever.”

She never had been very good at minding her own business, probably because she considered everyone’s business her own.

She liked knowing things, liked putting her knowledge to good use and helping people where she could. Some would describe her as an interfering gossip—indeed, she’d been called just that on more than one occasion—but she could not agree with this opinion. Nor did she care. She never shared information for the pure pleasure of it and she only interfered when she was certain her interference was necessary to prevent disaster.

“Honestly, Emmaline,” Lady Keswick said, “if even a fraction of the time you spend on other girls’ futures was spent on your own, you would be married with children by now.”

Saints be. Emmy’s nose wrinkled up in displeasure. She loathed being called Emmaline—a fact her mother well knew—but she loathed even more these dratted lectures on finding a husband and starting a family. Another fact her mother well knew yet chose to ignore.

“Mother, please. Do not—”

“You’re four-and twenty, Emmy,” Lady Keswick went on in a lowered voice, though Emmy didn’t see the point in whispering. The ballroom was so loud it was unlikely anyone would overhear them, and even if someone did, her mother’s desire to marry her off was no secret. “You should be married by now. All your friends have married. Even your brother has a wife now, and I never thought that day would come.” She slid a sidelong glance at Emmy. “I’m beginning to think your wedding day will never come.”

Emmy dropped her gaze to her feet, hoping the pose would make her appear contrite while she attempted to rein in her temper. She’d heard this lecture a thousand times before, and would undoubtedly hear it a thousand times more, or at least until she married.

Or fled the country, whichever came first.

Still, even though she knew she should be used to her mother’s lectures, she wasn’t, and probably never would be.

Her older brother Griffin, the Marquess of Keswick, had just recently married one of her dearest friends, Olivia, and only a few months before that, her other good friend, Sophie, had married James, one of Griffin’s long-time friends. It had all been something of a whirlwind, seeing her two dearest friends fall in love and marry last year within months of each other. She was thrilled for them, of course, but attending two weddings within the same half-year—one of which was her brother’s—had only served to make Lady Keswick even more desperate to see her daughter married, too.

“My wedding day will come after I’ve met the right man, Mother,” Emmy said softly, lifting her head to meet her mother’s gaze. “I do not wish to marry the wrong one.”