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CHAPTER ONE

Unfortunately, his current role as head of the house to his four boisterous younger sisters meant he encountered such things on a near-daily basis.

He’d escaped to the library only an hour ago, fleeing from some sort of dispute that included shouting about a borrowed gown, a missing hair ribbon, and claims of re-naming a kitten that the youngest one found.

The library offered its usual comforting solitude, even if that was broken by the faint plink-plink of a slightly distressing leak somewhere in the corner of the room.

In truth, much of Finch Hall was plagued with such things.

Leaks, drafts, the occasional mouse (hence the only reason he would permit the previously aforementioned kitten), and other elements which hinted at their perilous financial situation.

A situation that needed to be remedied, and one that loomed as his sisters grew closer to making their entrance into society. Their futures rested squarely on his shoulders, as it had for some time.

Alexander had been forced to assume the mantle of head of household at a young age, when his father, a man of more enthusiasm than fiscal prudence, had succumbed to a sudden fever, leaving behind a mountain of debts.

Alexander had done his best, managing the estate with a diligence that bordered on obsessiveness, but the tide of financial ruin was proving difficult to weather.

A knock sounded.

Alexander sighed. “Enter, please, Higgins.”

No one else bothered with such formalities such as knocking except his long suffering valet and estate manager. Higgins, a man of formidable build and even more formidable patience, had been Alexander’s shadow since childhood.

When the man entered, carrying a sheaf of papers, Alexander sighed a second time.

“Indeed, my lord,” Higgins replied in his booming voice. “The rent rolls are less a harvest and more a famine.. The weather has been… uncooperative."

“Uncooperative,” Alexander echoed, his lips twitching into a wry smile. “A polite euphemism, I believe.”

Higgins set the papers on the desk. "Perhaps it is finally time for you to consider what you have shunned until now? For the sake of your sisters.”

Alexander's expression darkened. "The marriage mart," he said, his voice laced with distaste, thinking of the few encounters he’d had with various ladies, and all the personal failings and embarrassments which had resulted. “I’d rather face the French.”

“I could arrange for your commission, sir, but that would require--”

“Money. Yes. I am aware.”

Ironic, that going to war sounded more appealing than the relatively cheaper option of attending a ball.

“A marriage would solve the issue of the dowries, my lord," Higgins pointed out. "And Finch Hall’s roof.” He waited a moment, before adding, his tone as dry as ever, “provided, of course, you locate a wife with a sizable dowry of her own.”

“And an interest in marrying me.”

“Or at least in your title.”

Alexander sighed, a sound that held the weight of a thousand ledgers.

"You are, as always, brutally practical.

My sisters, bless their innocent souls, deserve love matches.

" He glanced at the window, where the fading light cast long shadows across the neglected fields.

“But Finch Hall, and their futures, require a sacrifice.”

One that he would have to become. A marriage to a rich woman would solve many issues, but he held no illusions that any with wealth who would be interested in the ramshackle manor, the wildness of the inhabitants, and the blandness of the man she’d marry, would surely bring her own… something? Drawbacks?

It wasn’t that he expected someone perfect, not at all. But rather, he figured anyone who would be willing to tolerate that long list of shortcomings associated with a marriage to him would be, at best, utterly delusional.

“Alexaaaaaander!" Cecily’s voice rang down the hall. Moments later, the second-youngest of the girls sprinted into the room. Cecily, her auburn curls a riot of untamed energy, shouted, “there you are!”

“I am, indeed, here,” he told her. She was nine, going on twenty-nine in her own mind. “Is something the matter?”

"Jane and Harriet are having a most… heated debate about the merits of sprigged muslin versus figured silk, and Eleanor is attempting to teach the kitten to dance."

“And the kitten?” Alexander inquired, a hint of amusement creeping into his tone.

“The beast demonstrates a distinct lack of rhythm,” Cecily said, her lips twitching. "And a tendency to attack Eleanor's slippers."

"I shall arbitrate the muslin debate, and perhaps suggest Eleanor focus on the kitten’s… hunting skills," Alexander said, rising. "Higgins, I agree with the assessment and the solution."

Higgins nodded. “As you will, my lord.”

He tried for a smile. “It appears the lion's den awaits."

He would find a wealthy bride, even if she was as tedious as a treatise on turnip cultivation.

He would endure the endless balls, the vapid conversations, and the suffocating atmosphere of the Ton, all for the sake of his sisters.

He would enter the lion's den, and he would emerge, if not victorious, then at least, hopefully, solvent.

The ballroom at Lady Worthington's was a wretched cacophony of color and noise. Gilded cherubs cavorted on the ceiling, their painted smiles mocking his discomfort. The air thrummed with the forced gaiety of polite conversation, a symphony of insincerity that grated on his nerves.

He stood near a potted palm, a refuge of relative calm, or at least, the one element in the room taller than him, and hoped its leafy appendages hid him. Not that he particularly matched the plant, which would have certainly helped with the attempt at blending into the scenery.

He had, at Higgins’ urging, made an effort.

He’d brushed down his wool coat and found a pair of father’s boots.

His own were far too scuffed for any amount of polishing to improve.

They were a bit too large, veritable proof his father had left behind shoes too large to fill, but Alexander hoped they appeared proper.

He had even allowed Higgins to coax his usually unruly blond hair into a semblance of order.

But inside, he felt as out of place as a rare book in a fishmonger's stall.

The girls’ dowries, the roof, the estate—all hinged on his ability to charm a woman whose fortune could improve his family’s fortunes . He had a list, compiled by Higgins with ruthless efficiency, of eligible ladies, each with money ample to make Croesus envious.

The esteemed Miss Anne Bonnet, with her vast holdings in Yorkshire. Miss Beatrice Hughes, sole daughter of the man who owned half of London's shipping docks. And then there was Lady Honoria Wellington, whose wealth was legendary, but whose obsession for her dogs was equally renowned.

He had attempted to engage Lady Anne in pleasant chatter, only to find he’d completely forgotten to have a topic in mind with which to begin the conversation.

She had blinked at him, her eyes glazed over, and then turned away to flirt with a foppish gentleman in a scarlet coat.

Miss Beatrice had been more interested in discussing the latest gossip from Almack's, of which Alexander was woefully ignorant.

Then, with a deep breath and a silent prayer, approached Lady Honoria. She had fixed him with a piercing stare, and then launched into a detailed description of her prize-winning pug. Alexander had found himself utterly lost.

Other gentlemen, with their effortless charm and witty repartee, seemed to navigate this world with an effortless grace that Alexander envied.

Or rather, failed to understand. He’d never been jealous of such men before now, where his own lack of desirable qualities would cause a failure to uphold his duties.

A hand landed on his shoulder, and Alexander jumped. Jonathan Kingsley, recently returned from the war with a gallant scar to prove it, grinned at him. “Hello there,” he said, his hands on his hips and a twinkle in his dark brown eyes. “Are you hiding behind a tree, my friend?”

"I am," Alexander admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. "And I believe the palm is offering me sage advice."

"And what might that be?”

"To flee while I still possess my sanity." Alexander gestured to the swirling mass of dancers. "I am ill-suited for this. I cannot flirt. I cannot gossip. I cannot, for the life of me, feign interest in pug dogs or the latest on-dits."

“And yet, here you are.” Jonathan gestured at him, as if summing up all the mediocrity Alexander was sure he represented.

Though Jonathan’s own attire was equally a bit out-dated as his own, he wore it with flair and fashion, making him seem even more gallant.

“I am impressed, my friend. I thought you’d never venture outside your library in search of love. ”

“It is not love that compels me,” he replied, a tightness in his tone. “Except that brotherly concern for my sisters, and my affection for Finch Hall.”

“Ah,” said Jonathan, who, as the youngest of seven, was no stranger to large families, though the topic of responsibility was not one he was particularly familiar with. “Harriet is debuting next year, is she not? Perhaps she might--”

“I will not ask that of her,” he cut his friend off. “No. Let her marry who her heart chooses, not some aged widower willing to ply her with money. It is my duty to support the family, not hers.”

After speaking, he watched a particularly handsome gentleman lead Lady Anne onto the dance floor. She smiled, her eyes sparkling. A pang of something akin to despair hit Alexander, even as it was followed by a swell of relief that he was free from attempting to speak to her again.

Jonathan nodded. “So here you are, to do what you will not ask her to. Though it is considerably easier, I have been told, for a man with a title and no money to find a woman with money and without a title, than the opposite.”

In other words, Jonathan’s own struggle. He had some wealth, but no title to offer any woman looking his way.

“Indeed.” Alexander sighed. “So here I remain, with this fine potted palm as my advisor.”

“Are you interested in seeking the wisdom of one who may not be so leafy in nature?” Jonathan grinned.

“If you are to tell me how easy it is to be charming and dashing, I will remind you I have neither your wit, nor your good looks.”

A smile flashed on Jonathan’s face. “You are, however, an earl, so perhaps you should mention that at every opportunity.”

“I do my best to avoid such things.”

“Which is why we remain friends.” Jonathan’s smile turned thoughtful. “Perhaps a new strategy might fare you better. Tell me, friend. Are you any good with a hand of cards?”