A Kiss for the Marquess (Wedding Trouble Book 5) Read online

  Table of Contents

  A KISS FOR THE MARQUESS

  NEWSLETTER

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  EPILOGUE

  EXCERPT – HOW TO CAPTURE A DUKE

  A KISS FOR THE MARQUESS

  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?

  Other books in the Wedding Trouble series:

  Don’t Tie the Knot

  Dukes Prefer Bluestockings

  The Earl’s Christmas Consultant

  How to Train a Viscount

  NEWSLETTER

  TO INSTANTLY RECEIVE the free regency novella, The Perfect Fiancé, sign up for Bianca’s author newsletter at join.biancablythe.com.

  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.

&
nbsp; 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.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  OCEAN WAVES SOUNDED from the window. It was the same relentless splashing that compelled the ton and the regent to holiday in Brighton, even though the picturesque French Riviera once again welcomed visitors. For Emma Braunschweig, the sound of waves indicated the windows were ineffectual resistance against the outdoors.

  On days when it rained, which were frequent, despite people’s proclamations that Sussex was the sunshine county, rain pooled on the windowsills, and if her brother and she were away, water would drip onto the floor. Emma had long grown accustomed to the musty scent prevalent in the small suite of rooms she shared with her brother.

  The door pushed open, and Bertrand marched inside. Emma set aside her mending.

  Tension swept through her, but her brother beamed and brandished a copy of Matchmaking for Wallflowers. Lately, Bertrand had developed a sour expression, but now he bounced on the floor, seeming unconcerned about the risk the low ceilings might cause to his head.

  “I have saved us. I am incredible!”

  Emma blinked.

  “Read this.” Bertrand tossed her the pamphlet in an unusually athletic gesture. Normally, Bertrand deemed any sport as being improper, though that may have been his reluctance to add sport attire to his wardrobe. Even plain fabric had a cost.

  Emma regarded the pamphlet warily. “I thought Matchmaking for Wallflowers was defunct.”

  “Nonsense. It merely had a hiatus. Its editor was unfairly maligned.”

  “Oh?” Chivalry was a novel trait for him, and Emma supposed it was one she should encourage.

  Bertrand cleared his throat, and Emma forced her eyes up to the ever-stern gaze of her older brother. Bertrand’s jaw was set. Emma’s stomach fell, unconcerned with the tightness of her corset.

  “The first page,” he indicated. “The most important page.”

  She read an article about a marquess intent on finding a wife. “Was there a particular reason you desired to show me this?”

  She knew the answer.

  There must be a reason.

  Bertrand was not prone to reading, even if he had once shown a remarkable interest in the penny romance author Loretta Van Lochen.

  “I have secured an invitation for you to Lord Metcalfe’s castle,” Bertrand said.

  Ach.

  His look hardened, as if reading her thoughts. He probably could read them. He was her brother, after all, and ever since their parents had died, he’d played the role of mother and father, giving her a life even the most ardent fairy tale enthusiasts would have found remarkable.

  “This is where you congratulate me,” he said.

  Emma swallowed hard and she resumed inspecting the short article. “I don’t want to marry.”

  At least, she didn’t desire to marry a man like Lord Metcalfe. Women shouldn’t be dragged to manor houses–no matter how grand the architecture, or how sumptuous the furnishings–to compete for the attention of a man. It didn’t matter if the man was a marquess.

  No doubt this house party had been organized by the man’s overly concerned mother, anxious to hear the sound of pitter-pattering feet on corridors. A marquess of marriageable age should not be without marriage options. He could attend the season like anyone else.

  “I don’t desire you to marry him,” Bertrand said.

  S
he jerked her head toward him, waiting for his lip to curl, and for him to admit to jesting.

  “Lord Metcalfe is rumored to be meticulous,” Bertrand said. “You know our–er–family won’t hold up to scrutiny.”

  Emma resisted the urge to nod too forcefully. “Anyway,” Bertrand said quickly, “you are accompanying a Miss Margaret Carberry. Your job is to make certain Miss Carberry wins the marquess’s heart.”

  “That’s nonsense.”

  “No,” Bertrand said nonchalantly. “It’s actually three hundred pounds.”

  Emma stilled. Three hundred pounds was the sort of sum marquesses would scoff at, but meant things–great things–for her.

  Temptation surged through her, yet she shook her head. “What if she doesn’t marry the marquess? What if they are ill-suited? What if he picks someone else?”

  Bertrand frowned. “I hope you do not intend to be lax about your duties before you even begin them. Sloth is no virtue.”

  “I know, but–”

  Bertrand rested his hand against his brow and emitted a long moan that perfectly matched his pained expression. His gaze drifted to the tiny unframed mirror that hung over the faded wallpaper, and his lips curled briefly into a self-satisfied smile before he shut them again.

  Emma resisted the urge to roll her eyes, lest her brother decide to reopen his.

  Evidently, he had determined he was acting sufficiently distraught, for his eyes remained closed. “I am depending on you. We are in this dreadful boarding house because of you.”

  She stiffened. “That’s not true.”

  Bertrand sighed. “You wouldn’t need to do this if you’d only asked the Duchess of Vernon for money.”

  “Was I supposed to do that?” Emma strove for her voice to sound innocent.

  “That was the plan,” Bertrand said. “That’s why we were in Brighton. That’s why we cultivated that relationship.”

  “Well, now she’s gone to the Channel Islands,” Emma said. “I suppose we were too late.”

  “You were too late.” Bertrand threw up his hands and paced the room, the small size not impacting his speed. “I’m certain they told you the date of their impending departure.”

  Bertrand’s footsteps pounded over the creaking wooden floor, the noise not eased by the threadbare, faded rug on the floor, and Emma remained silent. Confirming his suspicions would not be helpful.