Lady Grace's Husband Hunt

PROLOGUE

September 1813 – Highfield Park, Buckinghamshire

Lady Grace Post grinned like an idiot. But she couldn’t help it. Her body still hummed from Oliver’s touch and the merest thought of him had her missing chords and fanning her face. Anyone would grin like an idiot in her place.

Grace. Oliver’s voice from the threshold made her heart leap.

He was already at Highfield! Had he already spoken to Braden? Or had he wanted to see Grace beforehand? She abandoned her piano bench and rushed across the floor to throw her arms around his neck. And she would have done so, if he hadn’t caught her arms and lowered them to her sides instead.

He looked positively tortured. Something was wrong. Had Braden rejected his offer? Well, her brother was going to answer to her! She was desperately in love with Oliver Ashbee, and Braden wasn’t going to keep them apart.

Oli— she began, but he squeezed her hands, making his name die on her tongue.

Don’t say anything, Grace, he said, his voice sounding almost hoarse. This is hard enough for me.

Heavens! What was wrong? What had happened? She implored him, begged him with her gaze to tell her what could possibly make him look so miserable.

I spoke with my father last night, he began. And— he winced.

"What is it? You are scaring me," she said, her heart about to pound right out of her chest.

He closed his eyes and pain seemed etched across his brow. I don’t know how to tell you this.

Please tell me, she urged. Whatever was wrong, they would face it together.

I am already betrothed, Grace. He opened his eyes and his piercing blue gaze appeared so haunted and pained.

The air whooshed out of Grace’s lungs as though someone had punched her. She could not have heard him correctly. I beg your pardon?

Oliver’s hands drifted up her arms and he held her tight. His anguished eyes begged her to believe him. "I didn’t know. I swear to you, I didn’t know. When I told him I was going to offer for you this morning, he told me all of it then. He has already arranged betrothals for Ginny, Veronica and for me."

That didn’t make any sense at all. If Oliver hadn’t been holding her, Grace’s legs would have buckled beneath her. What? she managed to breathe out. She loved Oliver and he loved her. He couldn’t truly be betrothed to someone else. He just couldn’t. It just wasn’t fair.

Oliver’s throat moved up and down as though he was trying desperately to speak. I’m so sorry, sweetheart.

Sorry? Sorry! She loved him. She’d allowed him liberties last night that she’d never imagined allowing anyone. He loved her! He’d vowed that he did. He was supposed to offer for her. He was supposed to talk to Braden this morning. They were supposed to be betrothed this afternoon. Grace and Oliver, not Oliver and…who was he betrothed to? Who? Who is she? Who had Lord Prestwood deemed was a better bride for his son than Grace?

Eloise Browning.

Eloise Browning? Who in the world was Eloise Browning? Who?

Lord Hambleton’s daughter, he said so softly, she barely heard him.

Who the devil was Lord Hambleton? No one Grace was familiar with. And she’d never even heard of his daughter. Not that any of that mattered. Did you tell your father—

There’s nothing I can do, Grace. Oliver’s voice hitched in his throat. The arrangement has been in place for almost a decade, upon Lady Eloise’s birth, apparently.

A decade? Since her birth! Oliver was betrothed to a mere child! Grace’s head spun and her heart twisted more painfully than she could have ever imagined. Oliver, she began, trying to remain calm. I have given myself to you, and—

You’re still an innocent, Grace. He closed his eyes again as though he couldn’t look at her. No man you’ll marry will ever need to know what we’ve done.

And was that to make everything all right, then? She wrenched an arm from his grasp and slapped him right across the face. How dare you?

Oliver looked stunned, and he sucked in a breath, but he didn’t back away from her or even touch a hand to his cheek.

I loved you, Grace said, her heart twisting so painfully she could barely breathe.

I will always love you, he said softly. Until my dying breath, Grace.

CHAPTER 1

April 1817 – Berkswell House, Mayfair

Grace scanned the ballroom looking for her quarry. She wasn’t certain who her quarry was, honestly. But she figured she’d know him when she saw him. At least she hoped she would. Or at least someone who would do.

Her sister Hope linked her arm with Grace’s and whispered, Any luck?

Not so far. Grace shook her head.

What about Mr. Potsdon? her sister suggested, glancing toward the refreshment table where Mr. Albert Potsdon was downing three cucumber sandwiches at once. He’s generally pleasant.

Grace snorted, and was quite fortunate her mother was too busy speaking with Lady Prestwood a few feet away to notice. I don’t know who my husband will be, but he won’t be that oaf.

Hope heaved a sigh. You’re being ridiculous.

And that was saying something coming from Hope, who had been more ridiculous in the last two years than Grace, their triplet Patience, and their two older brothers had been all combined. Well, when the Duke of Danby slaps a special license down on his desk before you and tells you which fellow he’s picked out for you to spend the rest of your life with this Christmas, don’t blame me when you’re not happy with the outcome.

And if it wasn’t for fear of what their great-uncle might do, Grace wouldn’t be scanning the Berkswell’s ballroom right now, looking for her future husband either. But she’d rather select the candidate herself than let the grumpy old duke do the picking for her. Honestly, she was fortunate to have escaped the last Christmas at Danby Castle without having been promised to whomever had struck His Grace’s fancy at the time. The odds of surviving two Christmases was hardly likely. And that meant Grace had nine months to find the perfect…or at least the most acceptable husband possible before her fate was selected for her.

The season just began, Hope muttered. You don’t need to find your husband tonight or even this week. Just— she shrugged —don’t get so worked up.

"How are you not worked up? she countered. You were there when Patience walked down the aisle at Danby Chapel. The man had a special license with her name on it. A special license. The only way he could have gotten one in such short notice is that he was already in possession of it."

Henry had a special license, Hope said, wincing slightly. It’s not so unusual.

There was nothing usual about the Duke of Danby and there was nothing usual about Henry Baxter, the late-Earl of Kilworth either. But Grace bit her tongue from saying as much. Belittling the dead man always sent her sister into a fit of histrionics, and the last thing Grace needed tonight was to deal with Hope’s misplaced sensibilities. Especially when she had a husband to find and only nine months in which to bring the fellow, whoever he was, up to scratch.

Just don’t be in a rush, Hope said. Hastiness might keep you from finding your true love.

Ha! True love was a cruel joke.

Grace, Oliver Ashbee, the Earl of Prestwood, appeared before her as if on cue both in regard to true love and cruel jokes.

Blast him! Why couldn’t he leave her alone? It was hard enough to endure his presence on any given day, but certainly not when Grace was searching for a potential husband. She scowled up at the only man who had ever made her pulse race or her breath catch and hated him anew for looking so dashing in his dark eveningwear. His piercing blue eyes twinkled wickedly like they always did, and a playful smirk settled on his lips.

Might I have this dance? he asked.

I’d much prefer to eat broken glass, Oliver.

Hope gasped and then breathed out, Grace, in a rather shocked tone. Though how Hope could still be shocked after all these years was even more surprising.

Hope. Oliver smiled down at her sister. You are looking well this evening.

You only know she’s Hope since Patience is in Yorkshire. The blackguard never could tell her sisters apart. And it was rather annoying watching him pretend to be so genuine and dashing, especially as Grace knew he was very far from that.

"I’ve never confused you with anyone else," he returned smoothly, which just made her want to slug him.

Pity that, she began breezily, or you could torment someone else in my stead. Like perhaps his fiancée. Honestly, shouldn’t he be more attentive to Lady Eloise? If Grace saw him less, she might actually be able to forget him.

You’ll have to excuse her, Hope said softly. She’s in a rotten mood.

"Do not make excuses for me to him," Grace grumbled. After all, she was intentionally awful to Oliver every chance she got, always hoping he’d finally have enough of her barbs and acidic tongue to leave her alone completely. Any sane man would have left her alone years ago. And what did it say about her that she was in love with an insane man? Nothing good, certainly; but she didn’t want to think on that. And she certainly didn’t want to love him.

Oliver’s blue eyes shifted to Hope and he smiled. We could leave Grace to enjoy her broken glass, if you’d be willing to stand up with me.

Grace’s mouth