Page 1 of How to Lose a Dowry in Three Bucks (A Few Good Bucks #3)
She’s too proper to fit in among London society , thought Matthew Bohun, Earl of Peverel, as he sat at the breakfast table, observing his guest while availing himself of toast from the rack.
Miss Sophia Stafford’s hair was scraped back into a tight bun with little ornamentation to suggest she was, in fact, one of the great heiresses of the day.
Although another woman might revel in her good fortune, Miss Stafford guarded her expression and chose high necklines.
What need was there for a chaperone when Miss Stafford herself was so ably repelling would-be rakes and suitors alike?
On her plate was a single grilled tomato. She cut it carefully, rearranged the silverware in her hands, and took small bites into her mouth while studying the pattern on Matthew’s tablecloth.
“Do you plan to attend the ball this evening?” he asked, feeling awkward in his own home for the first time since reaching his majority two decades ago.
Miss Stafford set her silverware down, opened a book beside her plate, and recited, “Yes, the Gamaliel ball. Scheduled each Midsummer Eve. The Gamaliel family has been in possession of an estate in the East Midlands since the time of James I, at which point—”
“Yes, precisely,” said Matthew, cutting in to avoid hearing a long passage from Debrett’s. From whence had this chit sprung?
Miss Stafford was the only daughter of his tutor at university — a small man exceptionally gifted at mathematics.
What Matthew didn’t know at the time was that his tutor’s retiring wife, Mrs. Stafford, had been born Lady Evangeline Poynings, heiress to one of the great fortunes of the age. He’d been too busy carousing and making gestures at keeping up with his studies to listen much to gossip.
So when his tutor had extracted a promise from Matthew to aid his young daughter with introductions during her eventual come-out, he’d assumed that such a day would never arrive.
Few dons had the funds to support a wardrobe for a London season, let alone the cost of travel, even modest jewelry, and a dowry to bring some wayward buck up to scratch and get the gel properly married.
And that was if the child even made it to adulthood!
Matt shoved a piece of haddock into his mouth.
Damn and blast. This wasn’t the first time his disinterest in talk had posed problems, but it was certainly the biggest mess he’d landed in thus far.
He had, living in his house right now, a small, plain woman on the cusp of twenty-five who needed to be launched into marriage or — what — live in his house forever, going about the motions of seeking a husband for the rest of time?
Even her high neckline had an additional ruffle, as if her modesty needed a secondary modesty panel.
Matthew wondered if, upon undressing her the night of their wedding, Miss Stafford’s future groom might find a fichu plated to her skin and bones.
An immovable sheet with a hole affixed to her body.
He snorted out a laugh and then grimaced when he realized that he’d invented a scenario involving Miss Stafford’s wedding night.
Blanching, he took down a spoonful of kedgeree followed by a swig of beer, careful to avoid making a mess of his beard.
He might be crude, but he was not uncouth.
Miss Stafford’s large eyes watched him as he ate with gusto.
If her sober dress was any indication, she was likely a supporter of the temperance movement.
He had no plans to moderate his appetites before this woman; she was a guest in his home, and he enjoyed a good table.
If she wanted to dissect his manners like that tomato, so be it.
His tailoring fit his colossal body well, and he had no ambition to get his wardrobe cut down.
Matthew had met young Sophia on at least one occasion, and she’d seemed a perfectly normal lass of toddling age then.
But that had been half a lifetime ago, in another place.
She’d made her way to the former colonies with her mother soon after Matt’s tutor had died.
That must have accounted for her stiff demeanor and the drift of her accent.
“Do you plan to attend the Gamaliel ball?” she asked in a soft voice.
“I’ve another engagement,” he said. “At my club. Mrs. Simonet will escort you and ensure that proprieties are observed. And introductions made.”
What Matthew didn’t say was that the club in question was a secret society comprising some of the most powerful men in the United Kingdom. Men who shed their clothes and pulled on stag masks to share some very fortunate women.
His cock thickened in his trousers, thinking of tonight’s gathering.
The Grand Bucks carried on an old tradition in the capital, and Matthew was proud to wear the mask alongside other men from fine families.
Escorting Miss Stafford around town had been tiresome indeed, and he was looking forward to an evening of debauchery with his friends.
Well, those friends still allowed in the Bucks’ headquarters, known as the Forest. Two of their number had recently turned in their antlers. Matthew shook his head in disbelief while slathering marmalade on a roll.
“It’s orange,” he said, pushing the jar towards Miss Stafford. She’d decided that she would not eat meat. Matthew had heard of such a thing as vegetarianism but never actually encountered a soul who attempted to practice it with regularity.
He snorted. It was a fitting metaphor for Miss Sophia Stafford: she was a perfectly fine girl with a working stomach, and she was making a series of choices that moved her metaphorical neckline higher and higher, denying her the meat all women wanted.
But did all women want men, he wondered as he looked at his houseguest across the table. Perhaps that too was another of those bizarre choices Miss Stafford had made. In which case, why was she troubling him with her need for a Season?