Montford's stern mouth curved in what, in a less imposing man, might have been thought humor. "Never fear, my lady. I am not that anxious to conclude the business at hand."

He crossed to the window and stood for a moment looking at the small formal garden at the rear of the town house. "Arrange a house party, in my name, at Brynhaven and invite all five of them, with their parents, for a fortnight's stay beginning Friday next. That is where I shall expect my"-he nearly strangled on the word-"wife to live until she produces the necessary heir, so it will be well to observe them in that venue."

"Let me see if I have the straight of this," Lady Sophia said. "You refuse to shop for your bride at the season's social functions like the rest of the eligible bachelors of the ton, but propose to hold a private marriage mart of your own at Brynhaven starting Friday next."

"Precisely," the duke declared with an impatient scowl.

"Surely you jest. Not even you could be that autocratic, Your Grace. You cannot expect people of consequence to leave London at the height of the season with less than ten days' notice. They will already have accepted other social obligations for that weekend."

"Which they will cancel, I am sure, once they sniff out the reason for the invitation. From what I have seen of the rapacious matrons of the ton, they will harness themselves to the family carriages and trot to Brynhaven before they'll miss the chance of obtaining the title of Duchess of Montford for their vacuous little daughters."

Lady Sophia's smile was a bit thin around the edges. "You may be right at that. Ah, well, if nothing else, such a blatant disregard for convention will certainly enhance your already legendary reputation."

"As well as accomplish my aim with the least possible inconvenience to myself," the duke said dryly. With that, he strode across the room, yanked the gold-tasseled pull cord, and retrieved his stylish brushed beaver and gray kid gloves from his aunts' ancient butler. "I leave you to your list-making, dear ladies, certain that the commission will be well and truly accomplished."

Lady Sophia raised a deterring hand to halt his exit. "I cannot say I entirely approve of your unconventional behavior, Your Grace, but I commend your good sense in allowing responsible female relatives to separate the wheat from the chaff in the matrimonial mill. Men are notoriously bad judges of women; witness the deplorable mistakes your predecessors have made by relying on their own judgment."

The duke nodded. "My thoughts exactly, my lady."

"But," Lady Sophia continued, "for the sake of propriety, I feel we must also invite a suitable number of young gentlemen as well. There will, after all, be four very disappointed young ladies who will not come out the winner in this high-handed lottery of yours. We should consider their tender feelings."

"You are right of course, as usual, godmother." Montford sighed deeply. "Very well. Invite whomever you wish. I, for one, intend to mention it to Brummell when I see him at Newmarket. The Beau is always amusing, and I suspect I shall have sore need of a diversion before the infernal fortnight is over."

With a last perfunctory bow, the Duke of Montford took his leave of the two ladies, secure in the knowledge that with two such arbitri elegantis in charge, this blasted business of arranging a socially correct marriage would soon be a fait accompli.

For the first time in all her twenty-four years of hand-to-mouth, catch-as-catch-can existence, Miss Emily Louise Haliburton found herself deeply grateful she was the plain-faced daughter of a penniless third son.

Listening in horror as her aunt, the Countess of Hargrave, read aloud her note from Lady Cloris Tremayne, Emily even counted herself fortunate that she had inherited her mama's mousy brown hair and pudding bag figure. At least she would never have to worry about being caught in the kind of insidious trap she could see closing around her beautiful young cousin, Lucinda.

The note had arrived at an unseemly hour, as if of too much import to wait until fashionable London was officially astir. Lady Cloris's elegantly liveried footmen had hand-carried it to the Earl of Hargrave's equally elegant footman, who in turn had handed it to the earl's austere butler, who had delivered it on a small silver tray to the countess while the ladies of the house were still at breakfast.

"My stars and garters, I cannot take this in with just one reading. I must read it again," the countess said, and promptly proceeded to do so.

Dearest Hortense:

Enclosed you will find an invitation addressed to the earl, yourself, and Lady Lucinda to spend a fortnight at Brynhaven, one of the country homes of my nephew, Jared Tremayne, Duke of Montford. The duke has decided the time has come when he must consider taking a wife and setting up his nursery, and has requested my sister and me to recommend five eligible young ladies from whom he might choose his duchess. Naturally, because of the warm friendship we share, I insisted Lady Lucinda's name head the list I do not know the names of the other four, who, with their parents, will join you at Brynhaven, as they will be my sister's recommendations, but I am certain your dear little daughter will outshine them all.

With most heartfelt regards,

Chris Tremayne


Emily could scarcely believe her ears. What kind of cold fish was this Duke of Montford to blithely relegate the choosing of his wife to two elderly spinsters? Lady Hargrave's cook gave more personal attention to choosing the mutton for Sunday dinner than this peer of the realm did to choosing the future mother of his children.

In the two months since she had joined the earl's household as her cousin Luanda's companion, Emily had observed that most of the high-sticklers of London society were a shallow, jaded lot. But this top lofty duke must surely be the most outrageous of them all.

She shuddered. A cruel twist of fate had landed her amongst these philistines, and here she must stay for the next four months until she could receive the modest portion her grandmother had willed her. But then, God willing, she would leave the dirt and decadence of London behind forever and return to her beloved Cotswolds.

Warily, she looked to her aunt to gauge her reaction to this amazing missive just received. As she might have expected, a smile as bright as the sun flooding the window of the cheerful morning room lighted Lady Hargrave's plump face. Laying the note aside, she reached across the table to clasp her daughter's hands. "Never say your mama has not looked out for your welfare, my darling. Now do you wonder why I spent all those tedious hours teaching Lady Cloris to knit? Just think of it. My little girl is a duchess!"

Lady Lucinda's already pale skin blanched a shade whiter. She was a timid little thing who, at the slightest provocation, swooned gracefully away. Emily normally found such missish behavior very off-putting, but in this case she could scarcely blame her cousin for feeling faint.

"But, Mama," Lucinda gasped, clutching the edge of the table as if it were a lifeline, "I do not think I would like to be married to the Duke of Montford. He is so… so stiff and so grand."

"Of course he is, you silly goose. He's Montford. The first Tremayne crossed the Channel during the reign of Charlemagne, and they have been rich as Croesus ever since. Why, even the regent and the royals compete for the honor of entertaining the Duke of Montford." Lady Hargrave breathed an ecstatic sigh. "Just imagine, you may soon be visiting Carlton House on the arm of your husband, the duke!"

Tears welled in Lucinda's china blue eyes. "I should be absolutely terrified," she declared, "but at least the regent is rather fat and jolly-looking, and when I was presented to him at Lady Halpern's musicale last Tuesday, he tweaked my chin and said I was 'a rare little beauty.' The duke just walked right past me without a single look."

"Well, he won't ignore you at Brynhaven, my pet."

Lucinda gulped back a sob. "But what shall I do if he expects me to talk to him? I am not at all clever like cousin Emily."

"He won't," Lady Hargrave said with absolute certainty. "The last thing a man like the duke is looking for in a wife is clever conversation. Just curtsy and smile prettily and make certain you never step on his toes when he dances with you."

"I shall be required to dance with him?" Lucinda shrieked. "Oh, Mama, never say you expect me to do such a thing. I would simply die if he touched me. He does not look at all kind."

Lady Hargrave shrugged. "Dukes rarely do. I am sure it has something to do with being catered to from the moment one is born. But"-the corners of her mouth lifted in a sly smile-"I know this is not a topic for innocent young ears, and I only mention it so you will understand what is at stake here."

Her voice lowered to a discreet whisper, and, fascinated, Emily leaned across the table to hear her aunt's latest on-dit. "Montford is rumored to be excessively generous to his paramours. That emerald necklace of Lady Crawley's which you admired at the opera Sunday last was a gift from the duke-and she is merely his mistress and unattractively plump at that. Think, my precious darling, how generous such a man would be to a beautiful young wife who presented him with his heir!"

Lucinda's finely arched brows drew together in a puzzled frown, and she looked at Emily as if for guidance. "I would very much like an emerald necklace like Lady Crowley's," she admitted.