Prologue

Letters to the Editor

Matchmaking for Wallflowers

October 1816

Dear distributors of drivel: 

It has come to my attention that I have been featured yet again on the “Top Ten Lords to Land.” Please let me assure the readers, and whomever this secret editor is, that I do not wish to be on this list. 

I am gratified you believe my “shoulders have a breadth more commonly seen in sturdy farmhands” and that you are willing to overlook my “inability to tie an elegant cravat.” It is kind of you to suggest I could “simply pay an extensive visit to Beau Brummel after marrying,” and that “even if I prove to be a lost cause, my symmetrical features might make their way to the second generation.” 

I urge the unmarried women of the ton to please remove me from your lists of potential husbands even if you are aware of a “miraculous linguist who can tackle my rough accent” and are capable of “burning all my kilts.” 

Despite this magazine’s belief that I might make someone an “if not ideal, at least tolerable match, despite my unsavory origins,” I would like to state that I am not interested in making any match at all. 

Gerard Highgate, Marquess of Rockport

Scotland

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Matchmaking for Wallflowers

November 1816

We were delighted to receive personal correspondence from Lord Rockport. His lordship’s sense of humor, even when directed at us, is a delight, and we have moved him to the top of our list of Lords to Land. We encourage all young ladies to travel to Scotland to trap this elusive aristocrat. Arm yourselves with a copy of Waverley, laud the dull-colored Highland peaks that our Scottish neighbors extol with such inexplicable and incessant raptures, and you will find yourself wed by the end of the season.

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Matchmaking for Wallflowers

Letters to the Editor

December 1816

Dear scribblers of silliness: 

While I am cognizant of the supposed honor bestowed on me by crowning me the top “Lord to Land,” I can assure you of my continued resistance to having anything to do with a pamphlet so plenteous in prattle. The peace I cherish in Scotland has been marred by a sudden preponderance of marriage-minded Englishwomen and their calculating mamas. 

While some gentlemen have assured me that I have been awarded the ultimate adulation, I am aware of the darker sides of this babble-infested booklet, and my newfound position has not made me succumb to the flattery to which so many of my peers surrender. 

Recently the new Duke of Alfriston was gleefully maligned in these pages. I wonder at the sanity of my English neighbors who take pleasure in promoting such arbitrary, yet vigorously followed, advice. Who wields such ill-deserved influence?

I feel duty-bound to announce to the less-informed souls, who seem to comprise the entire population of Mayfair, that I have become aware that Lady Cordelia Haywood, daughter of the Duke of Belmonte, is a contributor to Matchmaking for Wallflowers. 

Let me remind the ton that though her ladyship might be in possession of some faint beauty, she is devoid of a single quality to qualify her for writing articles on the vastly overrated art of decorum and etiquette. This charmless chit was betrothed to three dukes, a number never equaled by any other debutante, a fact that should be cause for shame, not celebration, for her ladyship and her rumor-riddled family. It would not surprise me if she composed the condescending articles on the Duke of Alfriston’s missing leg herself. 

I urge you to stay away from foolish pamphlets, stay away from foolish chits, and by God, stay away from Scotland. This Scotsman values his peace. 

*

Matchmaking for Wallflowers

Letters to the Editor

January 1817

We pride ourselves on our anonymity. The maintenance of etiquette occurs with the most reliability when it is felt as an all-seeing, all-knowing, and always mysterious presence. Lady Cordelia has been removed as a contributor, and our readers are once again urged to follow the art of decorum stringently lest they find their misdeeds reported for the benefit of others. 

It should also be noted that Lord Rockport was entirely undeserving of this treasured pamphlet’s praise and has been removed from the list of Lords to Land. This rogue is one to avoid.

Chapter One

Yorkshire

April 1817

Lady Cordelia fluttered her fan, though the ballroom hardly qualified as warm. 

Or perhaps she’d simply never spent a ball sitting down. 

Thick Yorkshire accents rumbled around her and merged with the notes of poorly tuned violins. Guests clomped their slippers over the stone floor, and women swirled in murky blue and brown dresses. Most gowns seemed hastily modified from several seasons ago, though some seemed as if no one had even attempted to rectify their unfashionable lines. The guests’ faces were flushed, their eyes sparkled with vivacity normally seen on jeweled tiaras, they changed dance partners with an exuberant frequency—and not a single person had asked Cordelia to dance. 

Cordelia kept her torso at the ninety-degree angle her governesses had advocated. Unfortunately, the gesture did not compel any of the plethora of gentlemen to ask her to dance despite the adamant assurances of her numerous etiquette books that men found rigid postures desirable. 

She resisted the urge to tap her foot as the music switched to a popular melody. The joyful notes might be crescendoing, but she couldn’t permit anyone to think her unhappy. She desired no one’s sympathy. 

Perhaps the gentlemen simply were unaware of her status. Or perhaps they found her beauty intimidating. Blonde hair, blue eyes, and rosebud lips might overawe some people. Especially when the locks in question were glossy, the eyes large and wide, and the lips exquisitely shaped. More than one ardent suitor had compared her eyes to azure skies seen in the art of Renaissance masterpieces. 

But that had been—before. 

The guests continued to prance over the floor, and the men continued to ignore her. 

It was almost as if—

The thought was impossible, and she took a lengthy sip of her orgeat, despite her lack of affection for the cloyingly sweet taste and the unlikely pairing of almonds and oranges.

She couldn’t be a wallflower. 

She simply couldn’t be.

That was a fate for other women, ones with smaller dowries and educations at less vigorous finishing schools. 

Cordelia scanned the ballroom again. But unlike in her favorite Loretta Van Lochen novels, no charming prince weaved his way through the crowded assembly rooms.   

Which, come to think of it, was utterly fine. Dancing meant being on display, and despite her mother’s habit of dragging her to the finest dressmakers, Cordelia favored being away from the scrutiny of people she was beholden to impress.

Her mother frowned at her from behind the silver punch bowls and rows of crystal glasses. 

Cordelia raised her hand to her locks, prepared to brush away any loose strands, but her hairstyle was immaculate. She smoothed her dress, but the sumptuous fabric was unstained and devoid of wrinkles. Her gown remained impeccable. 

People should be dancing with her. 

Last season, the men had begged her for the honor.

She scoured the groups of assorted men again. Most avoided her eye contact. Enraptured in their own conversations, they were likely discussing cricket and cigars. 

The only thing Lady Cordelia and Lord Rockport can agree on is their mutual abhorrence.

A Scottish rogue...
Gerard Highgate, Marquess of Rockport and the ton’s most aloof rake, knows better than to wed an Englishwoman, especially one as prickly as Lady Cordelia. But when his mother dies and he finds himself saddled with her debts, he needs a wife at once.

An exacting Englishwoman…
Lady Cordelia knows hastiness in husband hunting leads to mistakes. But when she visits an aristocrat to warn that his life might be in danger, he misinterprets her suggestion to flee to Scotland.

An unexpected elopement…
Most elopements are born of love, not misunderstanding. Cordelia and Gerard have already broken that rule, but perhaps they can still make their marriage one of love.

USA TODAY Bestselling Author Bianca Blythe has written over twenty fun and frothy Regency-set historical romances, filled with wallflowers, spinsters, dukes, and rogues. On occasion, she also writes historical mysteries under the name Camilla Blythe.

Born in Texas, Bianca earned her bachelor's degree from Wellesley College and completed a graduate degree in her beloved Boston. She spent four years in England, working in a fifteenth-century castle. Sadly she never spotted dukes and earls strutting about in Hessians.

Bianca credits British weather for forcing her into a library, where she discovered her first Julia Quinn novel. She remains deeply grateful for blustery downpours. 

After meeting her husband in another library, she moved with him to sunny California. On occasion she still dreams of the English seaside, scones with clotted cream, and sheep-filled pastures. For now, she visits them in her books.