“Brandon,” cried one of the blue coats, “what are you about, man? You carry on as if you were getting married!”

“I beg your pardon, Fitzwilliam,” said Colonel Brandon. “Pay me no mind—I am in a foul mood today.”

“We cannot have that, can we?” replied Colonel the Hon. Richard Fitzwilliam of the ——rd Lt. Dragoons. “You will put poor Buford off, and Miss Bingley will have your head!”

Buford observed the exchange with amusement. “What troubles you, Brandon?” he asked.

“I am reflecting over a report from my steward, McIntosh. It seems one of my tenants has accused another’s son of dishonoring his daughter. Mr. McIntosh refuses to do anything without my leave, but I cannot make a decision without seeing to the facts of the case myself. It will be at least a week before Mrs. Brandon and I return to Delaford, and I fear by then someone may grow inpatient and take matters into his own hands.”

“Indeed, you need to speak to my cousin Darcy,” advised Fitzwilliam. “He has had to deal with like situations before, thanks to a certain scoundrel whom I shall not name who has caused him great consternation in the past. Darcy has experience in settling such matters, I regret to say.”

The two men continued to discuss the problem, but Buford did not attend. Today was his wedding day, and mapping out campaigns or dealing with warring tenants was none of his concern.

Sir John Buford’s long campaign ended today—his campaign to find a wife.

*   *   *

Colonel Sir John Buford, a newly made Companion in the The Most Honorable Order of the Bath, stood against a wall in Almack’s, trying to look as inconspicuous as a fine-looking man could wearing the red sash of knighthood—and failing. As a trained soldier in the service of his Britannic Majesty, he recognized a battlefield when he saw one. The first rule for surviving such a war zone was knowledge of the placement of the troops opposite, and that was best done behind concealment. As rocks and trees were in poor supply in the assembly rooms, the best Buford could hope for was to blend into the wallpaper.

It was the beginning of the Season, and all the mothers on the hunt were dragging their daughters about from event to event, trying to attach their little darlings to a worthy gentleman before all the desirable ones were snatched up. Buford had to rank among the most sought-after—a hero with a title and two thousand a year whose wealth and status were certainly acceptable for a second son. Like geese scavenging a wheat field, the colorful birds of prey glided across the room, feathered headdresses bobbing in unison, searching for the most suitable match for their offspring.

It was not that Buford disliked women—far from it. Indeed, he had the reputation of being quite the ladies’ man, and it was whispered that he had dallied with some of the most illustrious young wives of the fashionable set. No, his reluctance stemmed from his character. He was a hunter and, therefore, was ill at ease being the hunted.

It was ironic. The reason Buford was at Almack’s at all was that, after considering his time of life—he would not be nine-and-twenty much longer—and all the entreaties from his mother and sister, he decided the time had come to begin thinking about taking a wife. Coupled with the death of his honored father and the horrors he had witnessed in Spain, the colonel had come to accept the inevitability of the idea.

This was ironic for two reasons: First, the aggressive matrons of the ton would not have paused for an instant in their labors had they known Buford’s mind. Second, those labors were just the sort of activity that would assure that their daughters would never be brought home to Wales.

“Buford!” cried his companion. “If you truly wish to be known as a respectable gentleman, there are other ways to go about it than imitating Fitzwilliam Darcy!” Colonel Richard Fitzwilliam gave his comrade-in-arms a lopsided grin.

Buford’s eyes never left the crowd. “I beg your pardon, but I am certainly not as stiff as Darcy.”

Fitzwilliam laughed. “Oh, Buford, you make a fireplace poker look flexible!”

Buford could not contain his smile at the jibe. He could always count on Fitzwilliam to lighten his mood or protect his flank—as had been proved many times in Spain and France. Through war, women, and song, they had become brothers of a sort.

Buford was closer to fellow soldiers like Fitzwilliam and Brandon than he was to Philip, his true brother—not that the two were estranged—not in the least. They had been very pleasant companions in his youth, and they would still do anything for one another, but now the brothers had little in common—save family. Philip could no longer understand him. No man could who had never taken up arms. Thomas, his younger brother, might have, had he not died a midshipman at Trafalgar.

“When such beauty is before you, how can you resist it?” his friend continued.

“Well enough. Are you not affected?”

“I?” Fitzwilliam asked with a laugh. “I am not on campaign!”

Yes, on campaign was a good way of putting it. Since he came to realize that he had been wasting his life, Buford sought out ways to set things right. His first step was to cut off all association with the more licentious members of the fashionable set. The next was to rebuild his reputation. His last task was to find a worthy occupation now that his fighting days were behind him.

His father had been generous in his will, but Buford could not tolerate being idle. Looking about for a calling, he closely observed his commanding officer. Field Marshall Sir Arthur Wellesley, now the Duke of Wellington, and his brother, Marquess Richard Wellesley, while of noble birth, were of Irish stock and limited in their expectations. They used their military and political talents to make themselves two of the most powerful men in the kingdom. Theirs was as good a model to follow as any other, but before he could find his destiny in Parliament or government, he needed a wife.

“’Tis rather crowded for the first night at Almack’s, Fitz,” remarked Buford. “What is the occasion?”

“Do you not know? The hounds of society are here for the debuts of Mrs. Bingley and Mrs. Darcy.”

“So I am to finally meet the famous Hertfordshire sisters? Excellent. I am sure that Bingley’s bride is just as pleasant and unassuming as he, but I am looking forward to meeting the woman who brought down Darcy. Your cousin is an excellent fellow, Fitz,” Buford assured his companion. “I like him very well, but he can be taciturn and withdrawn to an embarrassing extreme! Are you sure you are related?”

“Absolutely! You have met the Viscount.” The mention of Fitzwilliam’s pompous older brother caused Buford to give a snort of laughter. “Ah, I see the Bingleys are already here.”

Charles Bingley had just entered with an extraordinarily beautiful woman on his arm. Buford admired Jane Bingley’s grace and soft manners. Just the sort of woman to whom Bingley would attach himself. I am happy for him. But, in the back of his mind, unbidden, came the thought: Better him than me. I need more. His gaze took in the Hursts and two other women.

With the eye of a connoisseur, Buford sized up the younger one quickly. Young, yet serious. Does not know how pretty she could become, even with spectacles. Family resemblance—could she be one of Mrs. Bingley’s sisters? I heard there was a virtual tribe of them.

The other lady held his attention longer. Is that Caroline Bingley? My, she cleans up well. Red suits her very well. She always did look to best advantage in strong colors. Extra effort in her dress tonight. Is she still not reconciled to Darcy’s marriage? How foolish of her! What a waste!

“Mrs. Bingley is certainly the beauty,” he observed to Fitzwilliam.

“Aye, she is. Had she fortune, I might have given Bingley some competition.”

Not bloody likely, not the way she is gazing at her husband, considered Buford. A love match! Well, the ton should forgive them that. No one expected much from Charles Bingley.

“But still,” Fitzwilliam continued, “there is something about the sister—”

“Not that mouse next to her?” Buford cried.

“No, no, I mean Elizabeth Darcy. Wait until you meet her. She has bottom, that one.”

She had better, he thought. Aloud he said, “I am sure she is much like her sister, quiet and unassuming. I hope she is ready for what the ton has in store for her—Fitzwilliam, what is so funny?”

Richard Fitzwilliam could not answer him. In fact, he could barely stand for laughing. “Qui-quiet and unassuming?” Another spurt of laughter. “Oh, you have certainly taken the measure of that one quickly, Johnny Boy!”

“I am pleased you find me so amusing, Colonel Fitzwilliam,” Buford observed dryly. “Perhaps a glass of punch will restore your senses.”

Reduced to what sounded suspiciously like giggling, Fitzwilliam waved at his friend and staggered off to the refreshments table. Absentmindedly, Buford had begun to observe Miss Bingley again when he was accosted by a person out of his past.

“Colonel Buford! Or should I now say Sir John? What shall I say, sir?” said a female voice.

Good-bye would do nicely, Victoria, he thought. “That is up to you. Good evening, Lady Uppercross.”

“So formal! And the two of us such old acquaintances!” Lady Uppercross purred. “I say, you are looking fit. War certainly agrees with you.”

Scenes of carnage from his last battle in Spain appeared unbidden in Buford’s mind, and it took all of his control not to scream at the baggage. Instead, in a tolerable voice he replied, “There are those who would disagree with you, madam. It is a pleasure to come home and see that few things have changed.” He bowed.