Tamsyn held up a placating hand. Fishermen and sailors had notoriously foul language, so she was well acquainted with salty words aimed at her person.
“If I did,” she said calmly, “would you buy my lace and brandy?”
Fuller grinned. “Naw. I just wanted to see how low a gentry mort would go.”
“Then we have nothing further to discuss.” Tamsyn turned away, feeling heaviness weighting down her limbs. With Nessa following, she moved toward the entrance to the alley, though she walked with deliberate slowness in case Fuller was merely trying to drive a hard bargain. She waited for him to call her back. He didn’t.
When she and Nessa emerged back onto the street, Tamsyn finally exhaled. She leaned against a brick wall and stared up at the greasy, gray London sky—so different from the bright blue that stretched over Cornwall.
“What do we do now?” Nessa practically wailed.
Tamsyn uncapped her flask and, after using her fichu to wipe off its mouth, swallowed a healthy mouthful of brandy. It burned a path through her body, strengthening her resolve.
“I have to find myself a husband,” she said.
“How is it,” Kit said, “that I can happily find an eager lover with ease, yet the moment my thoughts turn to matrimony, none of the women I encounter are at all suitable as a bride?”
Kit surveyed the Eblewhites’ ballroom with a disheartened gaze. To be sure, the mansion in the heart of Mayfair boasted one of the most beautiful ballrooms in the whole of the city, and it was currently filled with pretty, marriageable women looking for a husband. They wore gowns in a kaleidoscope of colors, adorned with ribbons and flowers and expensive jewels, and to a one, they were lovely, with bright eyes, easy smiles, and soft skin.
Despite the elegance and gaiety around him, his gaze alighted on the corners of the room, searching out areas where an enemy could hide, and locating the best routes for an escape. The war had been over for two years, yet he couldn’t shake the skills that had kept him alive.
Someday, perhaps, that ever-alert part of him would realize that the threats had passed. For now, he endured his wariness and caution, and reminded himself to unclench his fists and loosen his jaw.
“It’s a deuced mystery.” Thomas Powell, the Earl of Langdon and heir to the Duke of Northfield, shook his head with wry dismay. He spoke with a faint Irish accent, evidence of his early years having been spent in County Kerry. “I’ve told you again and again that you ought to just pick one, marry and bed her, and then acquire a mistress. It’s what I would do in a similar situation.”
“You’re a duke’s sodding eldest son,” Kit noted tartly. He and Langdon stood near the punch bowl in a desperate bid to locate one young lady who would make a fine countess. “You’ll never find yourself in a similar situation.”
“I suppose someday I’ll have to find myself a wife,” Langdon mused, “but that day is thankfully a good distance away.” He and Kit bowed as a handsome, statuesque woman walked by with her debutante daughter in tow. The mother nudged her daughter and both sent enormous smiles in Kit’s direction. “Lady Briscoe is eager to offer up her daughter for your consideration.”
Kit nodded politely in the women’s direction, but he only gave the debutante a cursory look before his gaze moved on.
“What was wrong with that one?” Langdon demanded impatiently.
“Too pretty. I’d exhaust myself fighting duels.” It didn’t really matter to him, though. Remaining faithful to his future wife wasn’t in his plans, and so long as she kept her fidelity until she birthed an heir, he didn’t much care what his spouse did—or whom she took as a lover.
Yet impatience gnawed on Kit. His body was primed and tense, the way it was in the moments before battle. He felt the clock ticking, more precious minutes and hours lost in his desperate search.
His friend sighed heavily. “You’re a bloody piece of work.” Langdon sipped at his punch and made a face. “Is there any decent wine in this place?”
“None that I’ve seen.” Kit wouldn’t have imbibed anyway, much as he wanted to. He had to present an appearance of faultless respectability in order to attract a prospective bride.
“We’re clearly not going to find anything worthwhile to drink here.” Langdon set his punch glass on a passing servant’s tray. His expression brightened. “There’s new dancers at the opera tonight. It’s early enough for us to catch a performance. And meet the ladies afterward.” He raised a dark brow with an appreciative leer.
Much as he wanted to go . . . “I can’t leave.” Kit fought to avoid exhaling in frustration. “Time’s running out. I have only a week to find myself a bride.”
The punch bowl gambit was a loss. Anyway, he was too restless to stand idle, so he began to walk the perimeter of the ballroom. Langdon kept pace with him, and together they skirted the edge of the guests making their way through the complex patterns of a country dance.
The women dancing all looked at him as he walked, but the moment he caught their gazes, he found something else to attract his interest—the twinkling chandeliers or the vases of hothouse roses positioned at the perimeter of the chamber.
“You’re doing it again,” Langdon observed. “Dismissing girls left and right as though you’re deciding what waistcoat to wear.” He grinned at a willowy blonde widow, who sent him an inviting smile. Yet he continued to walk beside Kit as they made a circuit around the ballroom.
“It cannot be helped,” Kit answered. He nodded his head toward different young ladies in the chamber. “Her laugh is too abrasive. That one’s as shy as a fawn. She’ll spend all my blunt and leave me foundering in even greater debt.”
That last shortcoming was one he couldn’t permit. He needed Lord Somerby’s money to make his plans for the future come to fruition.
After learning about the matrimonial condition of Somerby’s will, Kit had immediately gone to Lady Walford, the ton’s most accomplished gossip. He’d informed her—in strictest confidence—of his intention to marry within a month. She had agreed to hold his confidence, and by the following morning, everyone in Society knew that Lord Blakemere had given up his dissolute ways in order to secure himself a wife and fortune.
“Here I am,” he grumbled lowly. “A titled man about to possess a considerable fortune, healthy, young, reasonably attractive—”
“Reasonably,” Langdon noted drily.
Kit shot him a quelling look. There had been a time not so long ago when he’d been full of good humor and jests, never wasting an opportunity for droll banter. But his sense of humor had disappeared the longer he was in the marriage market.
“And I cannot locate one woman who’d make for a suitable wife,” he continued. He didn’t understand himself or his mystifying impulse to find fault with each female to cross his path. None of them seemed quite right.
“I blame Somerby,” Langdon said. “God rest his soul. If he hadn’t gone on about what a sterling marriage he’d had and how he was utterly devoted to his late wife, you wouldn’t have such lofty ideals about what constitutes matrimony.”
“Don’t be an ass,” Kit answered at once. “I know what marriage is supposed to be.” His own parents esteemed each other, just as any aristocratic couple should, and behaved accordingly in public and in private. The love Lord Somerby had felt for his dear Elizabeth was highly unusual, almost gauche in its effusiveness. Love was not part of genteel alliances.
Neither was fidelity. Kit knew the concept existed in theory, but he’d