Follow My Lead (2 page)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

May 25, 1821

An uproarious fracas occurred last night at the home of Mr. and Mrs. R—as they presented their youngest daughter to society in a tragically average fete . . . average, that is, except for the Locking of the Duke.

Lord C—, Duke of an ancient estate and impeccable lineage, and undisputedly the most sought-after potential husband in England, was found locked in a storage room in the cellar of Mr. R—’s house in St. James, with not one, not two, but three young debutantes!

Upon their rescue, the Duke’s countenance vacillated between blanched horror and utter relief as each of the three girls claimed the Duke had been caught in a compromising situation with her, and therefore they must marry. Luckily, logic was provided by one of the assembled bystanders: a young Miss F—, whose debutante status belies a sound and reasoning mind. She deftly pointed out that Lord C—had compromised none of them, as they each had provided chaperonage for the others, and unless two of the girls were willing to testify that something inappropriate had occurred with the remaining miss, no impropriety could be claimed beyond the discovery of sadly rusted and sticky doorknobs. As the grasping girls squabbled over which of them would claim compromise, and claim the Duke (and his enormous fortune) in turn, their story fell apart, and the lucky man was afforded the narrowest of all possible social escapes.

Unsurprisingly, the Duke’s carriage was spied on the north road out of town early this morning. The author cannot blame him. Three shrill debutantes are enough to drive your average man insane—let us be thankful that our Duke merely drives to the country.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

T
HIRTY is an excellent age for a man to marry. It is a nice round number. A number that, when read in the papers in a wedding announcement, seems neither too old nor too young, and yet at the same time, a declaration of adulthood and intelligence. Thus, Lord Jason Cummings, Marquis of Vessey, and more recently, the Duke of Rayne, was determined to do it. Marry, that is. At the round, sensible age of thirty.

Granted, he had determined something similar last year, at the not round, but prime and robust, nine and twenty. A mature age—an age at which men slough off the last of their youth and embrace their futures. And marriage is a strong way to declare that intention. After all, most of his friends had already gotten married. His best friend from school, Nevill Quincy-Frosham, was the last person he ever expected to fall into the parson’s trap, being as Nevill was without a doubt the most irresponsible human being in all of Britain, second only perhaps to his brother Charles. But, somehow, Nevill had been hitched to a smart little heiress since the previous winter. She controlled the purse strings and allotted the brandy, and Nevill, confoundingly, couldn’t be happier. Charles, too, had managed to find a young lady willing to look past his puppyish demeanor and marry him. So, last year, Jason had determined to find a bride in that annual exercise in buying, selling, and trading known as the Season.

Oh, that wasn’t fair. Jason was not that cynical. At least, he hadn’t been until last Season, when at the still far-too-young-to-be-married age of nine and twenty he had been hunted, stalked, giggled at, and swooned over by the far too eager baby-faced debutantes with claws like steel and mothers with the beady eyes of vultures.

Jason was aware enough of his own attributes, good and bad, to know he was not the type that women swooned over.

Then again, he was a Duke. A young Duke, and perhaps, a manageably good-looking one—despite the curse of his red hair. And as a Duke, he knew the lack of marriageable Dukes in England made him a rare breed, red hair and lack of swoonable attributes or no. He’d fully expected his entrance on the marriage mart to be met with a certain amount of interest.

Interest. That was an understatement.

Jason had spent years avoiding the tepid affairs of Almack’s, coming-out balls, tea and cards, and droning musicales that made up “good” society. He’d expected to be bored. And he was. But he had not expected to be bored and, simultaneously, scared out of his wits.

The plan to marry at twenty-nine died a quick death when he found himself locked in a cellar with three of the most frightening creatures he had ever encountered: Miss Rollins, Miss Quigley, and Miss Halloway.

And now, he found himself seriously questioning the wisdom to marry at the age of thirty, seeing as he was cornered by the same Miss Rollins, Miss Quigley, and Miss Halloway at Phillippa Worth’s garden party.

“Ladies, please!” he exclaimed, stopping their overlapping dialogue—that seemed to be aimed at him, but damned if he could tell what they were talking about. “It’s so . . .
interesting
to see you all again.”