Page 1 of Lady Graceless (A Series of Senseless Complications #2)

R oland Nicolet, the Duke of Pelham, father to seven daughters and zero sons, had spent his time at home after last season’s adventures congratulating himself that he’d managed to unload one of his offspring onto an unsuspecting gentleman by way of marriage. He looked forward to escorting the other six out of the house as soon as might be possible, though the youngest had just turned eight years old. He would take them all to Town, one by one, and heave them toward the nearest fellow passing by until his house was gloriously empty.

As he liked to say—his dream was within reach.

Anyone who was at all familiar with the duke, and in particular his seven daughters, named it all nonsense. The duke was a notorious liar, his fabrications generally serving no other purpose than providing him entertainment. His children found that quality highly diverting, though the ton did not laugh quite as long and hard.

The duke’s sister, Lady Marchfield, a well-respected countess, perhaps found the duke even less congenial than most. Her brother was determined to enrage her at every turn, which he inexplicably found hilariously funny. She, though, was intent on bringing a modicum of rationality to his house in Town and ensuring that her nieces were settled sensibly and with a minimum of gossip.

The duke’s first foray into the world of London’s marriage mart had been a series of twists and turns, and going forwards and backwards, and had even found a Bengal tiger on the loose. He’d been delighted with the whole thing, as it had been far more interesting than he’d ever hoped for.

Now, his Felicity was happily settled with Mr. Percy Stratton while Grace was the next in line. The duke anticipated a fascinating time of it, as his second eldest daughter had the unique ability to trip over her own two feet. If there was an ottoman in the same county, Grace would make it her business to find it and fling herself over it. Dogs and cats rushed to get under her feet. She had a small and fading scar on her right hand from misjudging how many stairs must be gone down to go to breakfast. On that particular occasion, she’d only been off by one step, but that had been sufficient.

She would require a rather stalwart fellow who did not mind finding his bride splayed on the floor on occasion.

The duke was confident on the point that any future son-in-law of his must be stalwart. All of them, whoever they might turn out to be, had better at least be stalwart. The duke had the unique ability to take the measure of a person and then send them through a mangle like any washerwoman squeezing water from wet sheets. Mr. Percy Stratton had been put through his own mangle and come out the other side relatively intact. The duke would be interested in seeing who Grace’s candidate turned out to be.

He could not predict exactly how the thing would play out, but he would shortly find it out—bags were being packed and arrangements made. In two days’ time they would depart their isolated estate on the Yorkshire moors, open the house on Grosvenor Square, and assault London society with the company of the Nicolet family once more.