PROLOGUE

Dear readers: 

It is with much amusement that we report that Hugh Beechmont, Marquess of Metcalfe, is hosting a house party with his mother, the venerable Dowager Marchioness of Metcalfe. Though house parties are not normally sources of ridicule, and are instead seen as valuable places to improve one’s pall mall skills while happening upon eligible gentlemen in something closer to their natural habitat than the stark assembly rooms of Almack’s, I assure you that this is a time for joviality. 

The marquess has abandoned his reputation and has instead invited eight eligible women to his castle in Surrey. We are assured the marquess intends to propose to one of these women by the end of their stay. 

Though the Dowager Marchioness of Metcalfe has never topped our lists of matchmaking mamas, it seems she has wrangled her son into taking a bride. We have been informed the abundance of invited debutantes, heiresses and beauties has not been matched by eligible men. The dowager must desire only one marriage to take place: her son’s. 

Are you attending this house party, dear reader? If so, you ought to start ordering your lace dress from the continent now. One wonders at the haste with which the dowager marchioness will plan the wedding, giving the remarkable efficiency in finding a bride.

- Matchmaking for Wallflowers

July 1819

CHAPTER ONE

Somebody was throwing rocks against the castle wall. 

Hugh glowered and rose from his desk. The whole point of living in a castle was that people were supposed to be intimidated. He gave an apologetic smile to the portraits of his ancestors lining the library walls and marched toward the window. He shoved aside the jacquard drape, forced the window up and poked his head outside. 

Though the sun had toppled downward, it had not yet made its final descent, and a gold and pink glow shrouded the grounds. A fragrant floral scent attacked his nostrils, as if compelling him to wander the estate like some lovesick nobleman, and he scowled at a flowering tree. Perhaps the gardeners could move it to another location. 

Libraries were for work, and nothing, not even sublimely scented blossoms, should distract him. 

“Beechmont!” 

Hugh peered down, but the ground was bare.

“Beechmont!” the voice whispered.

It was a male voice. That was good. Ever since that beastly article in Matchmaking for Wallflowers declared him eager to marry to all the world, he’d worried some chit might smuggle herself into his rooms and declare herself compromised.  

“Up here!” the voice whispered again. 

Hugh jerked his head up. 

Tucked on the other side of the red-brick parapet was His Grace, Jasper Tierney, the Duke of Jevington. Otherwise known as Hugh’s best friend. 

Hugh scowled. “Jasper?” 

Jasper gave a jaunty wave and grinned widely.  

“Why on earth are you in that ridiculous position?” Hugh asked. “One does not sit in crenulations. We have comfortable chaise longues inside.” 

They were the Italian sort and had the price to match the indisputable plumpness of the pillows. 

Jasper rolled his eyes. “I don’t want anyone to see me.” 

“You’ve never been given to shyness before,” Hugh grumbled. 

Jasper tightened his jaw. “I am not, and have never been, shy.” 

Hugh gave him a stern look. 

“I am attempting to be discreet,” Jasper said through clenched teeth. “My carriage is at the stables.” 

Hugh raised his eyebrows. Normally, Jasper rode a horse when he wanted to see Hugh. It was a sign of indolence he’d taken the carriage.

“My valet packed extra clothes in case you’d rather not risk sneaking into your room.” Jasper flashed him a curiously self-satisfied smile. “I don’t want your mother to see us. I told the groom not to unhook the horses. I can have you out of here quickly. I just need to know whether I should risk breaking into your room for any personal items.” 

Hugh blinked. “You want me to go with you?” 

“Naturally. I am, after all, rescuing you.” 

“W-What?” Hugh sputtered. 

“I know you’ll need my help to escape,” Jasper said smugly. “After all, my shoulders are wider than yours.” 

“That is utter drivel,” Hugh retorted. “Everyone knows my shoulders are wider.” He paused. “But where are we escaping to?” 

“Italy? France? Greece?” 

“Greece?” Hugh had the uncomfortable sense his eyes were goggling, but Jasper gave him a cool nod. 

“Greece is delightful,” Jasper said. “All those beautiful statues wearing absolutely no clothes.” 

“How riveting,” Hugh said dryly. 

“We can inspect Greek women to see if they match their ancestors in beauty.” Jasper’s eyes glimmered. 

Hugh sighed. “Jasper, I do not need to be rescued.” 

“Assisted,” Jasper corrected hastily. “Accompanied.” 

“I am not going anywhere.” Hugh’s gaze fell on the pamphlet crumpled in his best friend’s hands, and his stomach sank. “You read that.” 

His best friend wasn’t known to read women’s pamphlets, but no doubt someone had given it to him. Hugh should have expected it. 

Jasper’s face sobered. “I did. But it’s fine. I’m here to rescue you.” 

“What on earth do you mean?” 

“We don’t have to fetch your clothes,” Jasper said. “I have plenty. Perhaps your shoulders aren’t that narrow.” 

“I am certain that was difficult for you to admit.” 

“This is important.”

“You’re a good friend. But I am staying.” 

“Because of your mother’s sudden desire for a daughter-in-law?” Jasper asked. “As if she does not have a castle filled with servants to command?” 

“Mother does not command anyone,” Hugh said, his approval of Jasper rapidly diminishing. “You know that. She is a sweet, kind woman.” 

Jasper held up the pamphlet. “This is not something a sweet, kind woman would arrange. This is befitting of a tyrant! She wants you to marry and has invited chits here with the promise one of them will become a marchioness. It is dastardly.” 

Hugh suddenly wished the sun had already made its departure. He had no urge to meet Jasper’s eyes. His friend wouldn’t understand: Jasper’s father had not died several months ago. Unfortunately, there was no avoiding the situation now. Hugh inhaled. 

“My mother did not arrange the upcoming house party,” Hugh said. “I did.” 

Jasper laughed. “You needn’t defend her.” 

“I’m being serious,” Hugh said. “Lately, I’ve been the epitome of seriousness. Have you not noticed?” 

Jasper tilted his head, and a worried look flickered over his face. “You have been acting oddly. I’ve hardly seen you at White’s, even when you were in town.” 

“That’s because I’ve been working.”

“Working?”  Jasper scrunched his forehead. 

“Doing my filial duty. For once.” 

Jasper widened his eyes. 

“I am a marquess now,” Hugh continued. “Things have changed.” 

“But you’re a rogue,” Jasper exclaimed. “A connoisseur in women. A partaker in Dionysian delights.”

“And now I require a marchioness,” Hugh said. “Someone to help me entertain ministers, someone to dance with at balls, and someone who will espouse the qualities most required in being a nobleman’s wife.” 

“I see.” Jasper pulled his gaze away.  His voice was softer, more distant, and Hugh felt a pang that his normally exuberant friend was less exuberant. 

“I’m sorry,” Hugh said. 

“So, you can’t go to Greece.” 

Hugh shook his head. “Nor can I visit France or Italy.” 

“The Austrian Empire?” Jasper asked hopefully. “It’s not a conventional destination, but I am fond of mountains and trees.” 

“You just want to practice the German your nanny taught you.” 

“Nanny Brigitte,” Jasper sighed, and his eyes had that blissful look that appeared sometimes in decent people’s faces when they contemplated heaven.

“We are not going to the Austrian Empire,” Hugh said firmly. “I shall be busy finding a wife.” 

“A house party is an abominable method to do that,” Jasper declared. 

“You’ve said that before.” 

“And I’ll say it again,” Jasper said with more defiance than the occasion warranted. 

“I am unaccustomed to such consistency of thought from you,” Hugh said. “You’re far more conservative than you let on.” 

“This is the nineteenth century,” Jasper said. “You can’t just line up a dozen women.” 

“Eight,” Hugh said. 

Jasper inhaled. “Eight women then. You can’t line up eight women and select the best of them.”

“Why not?” 

“It’s not proper.” 

“And how would you suggest I find a wife?” 

“There are numerous matchmaking mamas who would gladly assist you in that pursuit.” 

“Naturally, it is easy to marry,” Hugh said. “My duty is to ensure I pick the right one.” 

“The right one is the woman who makes your heart beat the most quickly,” Jasper said. “It’s all simple.” 

Hugh chuckled. “Nothing can be simple about choosing one’s life mate.” 

“You’ll see.” Jasper rolled his eyes and then glanced in the direction of the stables. “I’ll have to tell my valet to unpack my things.” 

“You can go without me,” Hugh suggested. “Or bring someone else.” 

Jasper shook his head. “If you’re going to find a wife, I’m going to help you.”

“You needn’t do that,” Hugh said, and for the first time, his voice trembled. 

Jasper beamed. “Nonsense. We’ll find you the very best marchioness.” 

He planned a house party filled with eligible women to choose a bride. She’s a prospect intent on ruining his plans.

Hugh, the Marquess of Metcalfe, prides himself on his efficiency. When he requires a bride, he knows just how to select one: a house party filled with eligible women.

Emma Braunschweig is not in search of a husband. After all, a husband might discover her family’s secret. Instead, her brother has procured an invitation for her so she can ensure the marquess chooses a certain eligible heiress. 

Hugh’s methodical approach to marriage should make him eliminate Emma from consideration. Emma’s horse-riding ability is questionable, her piano skills are atrocious, and she spends her time extolling the good qualities of another contestant. But can a kiss change everything? 

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.