Page 1 of The Rules of Matrimony (The Matchmaking Mamas #4)

London, England—April 1823

Ian met his father’s glare with a fiery one of his own, showing the man less respect than he had probably ever received in his life, and set his hand down firmly on the black-walnut desk between them. “I repeat: I will not marry.”

With the battle lines drawn between them, Ian’s father leaned forward in an attack position. “Her name is Miss Margaret Foster. Call on her tomorrow and every day for the next fortnight. I want the banns posted and an announcement in the Society papers by the end of the month.”

Ian usually faced his fears, met his challenges head on, and always confronted his foes, but the word marriage thoroughly rattled him. Especially when paired with his own name. Regardless, he refused to cower to his father like some vulnerable prey. “I’m already acquainted with Miss Foster. Her father is Lord Halbert, an idiot politician who never took the time to check his silly daughter. She is the last person on earth I will ever tie myself to.”

Red was not his father’s color, but it was better than the purple climbing up his neck and into his cheeks. “Do you question my authority? Ask anyone and they will tell you that I, Lord Kellen, am an earl whose vote in Parliament sways the majority of the House of Lords. Indeed, my decisions affect the state of this nation. I will not have my son’s whims and fancies overriding my position in this family. You will marry Miss Foster. Discussion over.”

Ian straightened and flat-out laughed. Did his father really try throwing the weight of his title at him? As though he could rule his family the way he did his so-called friends? “I do not question your authority, Father, but you must question mine. Ask anyone, and they will tell you that I, Lord Reynolds, am a viscount whose vote matters the most in respect to his own person. And, might I add, this decision affects the state of my entire life. My whims and fancies, as you call them, may differ from your own, but they are perfectly valid.” Finally, the discussion could be over. He turned to leave, took several purposeful strides, and had his hand on the door handle, when his father threw out a warning that stopped him cold.

“You will marry, or the consequences will be great indeed.” The deep, rumbling threat shook the ground under Ian’s conscience. His father had been angry with him before, but this tone superseded them all. “Don’t put anything past me, son.” Fury punctuated each word. “I’ve had enough of your impertinence over the years, and I will not tolerate such insolence any further.”

Ian knew what his father’s derisive words meant.

Disinheritance.

Possibly disowning him altogether.

Ian had pushed his father hard this time, but was this what he had hoped to accomplish? A life without his father, certainly, but not a life without his home in Brookeside or one without his mother and the friends they kept. Right now, Ian would give up a great deal to avoid being a puppet under his father’s control. Money meant little to him, but that his father would use it against him burned. His grip tightened on the door handle. With a hard yank, he threw it open. Biting down every last spiteful word he could think of, he marched away, appreciating the echoing slam of wood behind him.

He didn’t stop his staccato march through the tiled corridors until he’d snatched his favorite D’Orsay hat from the butler’s extended hands and stormed from the house. A liveried groom held Ian’s horse at the ready. He accepted the reins and jammed his hat on his head, not caring if he ruined its shape.

Ride. He needed to ride. He was glad he had the foresight and had planned for it. Like all conversations with his father, this one invariably required fresh air afterward to cool his temper.

His black thoroughbred tossed his head, sensing Ian’s agitation.

“Don’t worry, Moses,” Ian soothed. “You’ll get your exercise.”

An hour later, Ian slowed his bruising pace just outside of London as he neared a small country churchyard. He hadn’t realized this was his destination, his primary thought to put distance between himself and his frustrations, but for better or worse, he was here now. Moss crept up between the cracks of the narrow church building, casting it with a green hue, and a crooked tree in front greeted him with its bent branches. He sighed, releasing some of his pent-up emotions in the elongated breath. It had been some years since he’d been this way, but it hadn’t changed at all.

Tying up his horse, he entered the white picket gate and strolled around the side of the church to the graveyard. His feet moved without thinking until he reached the familiar marker of the late Lord Reynolds, who hadn’t lived long enough to inherit the title of earl, as Ian’s father had.

“Hello, Grandfather,” Ian whispered. Exhaustion hit him like a brick wall, making every inch of him sag with defeat. He wasn’t just tired in spirit; he’d not slept well since his father had begun harassing him day and night to marry. He’d always thought he’d have to fight off his mother, the queen bee of the Matchmaking Mamas, but his father? Ian preferred it when his father was too busy to remember his only child existed.

Without another thought, Ian dropped beside his grandfather’s headstone and sprawled out on the crabgrass. He covered his face with his hat and attempted to forget all about his responsibilities as Lord Reynolds—particularly, his father’s selfish edict.

Utterly infuriating.

Ian would never marry Miss Foster. Garish on the outside and insipid throughout.

He sighed again, this time without a specific cause. He needed a nap. Some nightmares were worse when awake. Fortunately, he’d unknowingly sought out the peace and quiet of a graveyard.

He shifted, the sun not quite warm enough to keep the dampness from soaking through his trousers. The peace was worth the sacrifice. Here he could enjoy the company of those who did not lecture incessantly about his duty and how he was failing the next generation. Only the dead could appreciate the beauty of solitude these days. Grandfather beside him, for example, made an excellent silent companion.

Ian reached over and studied the ground next to him. While he could never overlook the man’s infidelity, he’d heard enough stories to know his grandfather had done good with his life too. He’d rallied investors for a volunteer-run hospital, a center for training physicians, and a needed dispensary for medicine, donating a tidy sum of his own money in the process. And all this was done before his death at five and thirty. Ian hoped to change the world, too, but he would not fall into the same pitfalls as the other men in his family. He would be wise enough to avoid the complication of love or marriage. He forced himself to relax. The faint chirping of birds and the slight breeze were the perfect combination to soothe his nerves.

This. This was what he needed.

“Good morning.” A singsong voice filtered through the silence.

For heaven’s sake, could a man not have three minutes strung together to himself? He lifted the brim of his hat and spotted a woman facing away from him. She was several feet away and speaking to a headstone, not him. He relaxed again, determined to fall asleep if it killed him.

“I know I came yesterday, but as you are the only one who ever misses me, you cannot be surprised that I came again.”

Ian cringed. Did she mean to have an entire conversation out loud? The dead were far more popular than he had anticipated. He prayed she would not stay long. If she was a regular patron, as she claimed, she should respect that someone else had come here first.

“Mama is driving Uncle mad,” the woman continued, her articulation notably genteel. “We’ve been here a fortnight, and already she is determined that we will be homeless. Oh, I know; she means well. I suppose I am not being charitable. My mind is all but consumed with our situation.” The woman produced a heavy sigh, deep enough to match the ones he’d exerted. “ Cousin Robert is back from his trip. I wouldn’t admit this to anyone else, but Uncle still indulges Robert’s every whim, and I’m afraid Robert is quite spoiled.” Her voice turned desperate. “I’m even more afraid Cousin Robert sees me as his next prize to collect. What if Uncle gives me to him? Oh, Papa, what am I to do?”

A sympathetic chord struck in Ian’s chest. He tipped his hat back, leaned forward on his elbows, and took a longer glance—this one with actual interest. The woman had hunched down but was not quite kneeling. The angle made it difficult to discern more than a few details about her. She was of marriageable age, with unruly, curly brown hair and wore a dark-brown dress covered by a rather ugly knitted shawl.

Many women found themselves in similar, pitiful situations, where their very future depended upon their relatives. It irked Ian to no end to hear of a young lady being abused. Blasted people. If the plight of the human race weren’t his greatest weakness, he would despise more humans.

He massaged his brow. It was better not to know their problems because then he felt obligated to do something about them. It was the calling of the Rebels, he and his friends liked to say, to fight against the injustices of Society. But such battles were not without their drawbacks. No one could help everyone. It was impossible, if not exhausting. And this morning, Ian needed to help himself before he lost his mind over his father’s controlling, aggravating ways.

Collapsing back against the prickly grass, he set his hat over his eyes once more. He would pay the young lady no mind. He was sleeping—the single, sure way to escape the weight on his shoulders.

More voices sounded in the distance. They were only passing by. Nothing he couldn’t ignore too.

“Oh, fiddlesticks!” the young lady mumbled in low frustration. He heard a rustle of fabric, but he chose to ignore whatever had her flustered. Maybe she would finally leave and give him the peace and quiet he had come for. Her footfalls brought her closer to him. A gasp sounded a moment later, far too close for comfort.

“Sir? Sir?”

He squeezed his eyes shut. If he didn’t respond, she would cease speaking to him. An oof sounded beside him, and he sensed more than felt that she had sat down.

This wasn’t happening. Why must he forever be surrounded by people?

Make her go away!

This prayer, among other silent frustrations directed toward heaven, was not answered.

A weight hit his chest, and arms circled about him. His hat flopped off his face, and his eyes flew wide. What madness was this? She—a perfect stranger— was hugging him. And her blasted head was resting on his chest!

This wasn’t the first time a woman had tried to place him in a compromising situation in the hopes of a good marriage, but there was no way this woman even knew who he was.

How desperate was she?

“Miss, please release me,” Ian said.

The young lady’s head swung up, and her piercing brown eyes, framed by thick lashes, dazed him. For a moment, he didn’t react—didn’t know how to. He blinked away what was surely a rush from raising his head so quickly and not because of her startling gaze.

Thankfully, his senses returned. “Miss, I must insist.”

She seemed caught in the same daze. “I thought you were dead! I—I was listening to your heart.” She sat up quickly, dropping her arms from his chest and taking with them a warmth he immediately missed.

Because his clothing was damp from the dew on the ground, obviously, and not because he missed her nearness. He shook his head. Honestly. Of all the ways to meet a person.

He really could have used that nap.

“As you can see,” he said, sitting up, “I am far from dead.” His heart, on the other hand, now that was negotiable. Although, at the moment, it was beating an erratic rhythm, as though he’d run a foot race ... or had had a woman lay on his chest. It couldn’t possibly be from those luminous eyes. No, his fatigue was confusing him.

She drew back a few more inches and visibly gulped. “Well, you never know. Someone could have dumped your body here. It is a graveyard.” There was nothing fanciful about her voice. It was sure and resolute.

“Your imagination is impressive, but—”

“Shh!” The young lady pressed her finger up to his mouth. The voices from the road were growing louder. Anxiety flooded her eyes. Her response was intense enough that he allowed her to leave her finger poised on his lips.

It smelled like vanilla.

He loved vanilla.

But no one was allowed to touch his mouth, he reminded himself, and he snatched her finger away. “No one shushes me.” He wasn’t angry but astonished. He didn’t know how to respond to her boldness. He was usually the bold one, and most were too intimidated to order him to do anything—except his father, of course. At least she hadn’t been trying to trap him, as he’d first thought.

She frantically shook her head. “Oh, please don’t speak. They’ll hear you.”

“Who are they ?” he obediently whispered.

“My neighbors.”

He supposed no one should see them like this together—alone—but this was clearly something more since she had reacted to their voices before she had even seen him. He drew a few quick conclusions based on his observations. She was in a desperate situation with her mother, lived with a volatile uncle, and was being forced to marry her cousin. In addition, her neighbors were some kind of scary creatures she hid from inside a graveyard.

Had she nothing good in her life to recommend her? Besides her enthralling eyes. Those were by far her best quality.

He humored her and remained quiet for several long minutes, in far too close proximity with her just beside him. Her head was angled so she could watch the road. His own eyes weren’t on the road at all but on her. Since he couldn’t see around Grandfather’s headstone with her in the way, there was nothing else to look at.

Slight freckles dotted her otherwise fair skin just below each eye. Above her right brow was the slightest pull of a scar. Her slender, button nose led to well-shaped lips—the bottom slightly fuller than the top. He did not believe he had ever examined someone so closely before. She was pretty in a quiet way—except for those soul-filled eyes—which suddenly turned on him again.

“I believe they are gone,” she said.

“Mmm—good.” He sounded like an idiot who couldn’t speak properly. But admittedly, he was a little taken back by her. Her clothes and thoughtless manner did not hide that she was well-bred. Did she not realize how unseemly it was to hide behind a headstone with a man? No, that thought likely didn’t pass through many people’s minds. Even so, he found her innocence appealing. She was not so obsessively tied to tradition that she could not think for herself. But the nonsense was over, and he had business to see to. Urgent business. “If you’ll excuse me, I would like to finish my nap.” He laid back down on the grass and fixed his hat over his face for the third time.

There. No more sad, brown eyes tricking his senses.

“You really shouldn’t sleep here,” she hedged, her gown rustling the grass as she hopefully stood to leave.

“There is no sign preventing me from doing so.” He squeezed his eyes shut, annoyed that he could still see two pools of brown and their accompanying long lashes behind his closed lids. The memory was an astonishing thing and equally vexing.

She huffed from somewhere beside him. “Perhaps not, but this is an extension of the church.”

“And?” His family paid for the upkeep of this particular parish. The least they could do was allow him a few minutes of peace.

“And you really shouldn’t drink so much.”

He frowned. “Who said anything about drinking?”

“Are you so far gone, you do not remember?”

His irritation grew. He was not the type to drink himself into a stupor. He valued his control too much. “The only matter I remember is my intention to sleep.”

“You need more than sleep,” she said. “You need to abstain from—” Another voice sounded in the distance. “Oh, fiddlesticks,” she growled again, though this time it did not hold any fear. “I have to go.”

“Good.” He didn’t mean to sound rude, but nor did he know what else to say. It wasn’t exactly a proper place to converse alone with a woman, and despite his feelings on Society’s silly constraints, he did believe in protecting a woman’s reputation.

He peeked once more when he did not hear the sound of her footfalls. Surprisingly, she hadn’t left yet. She danced back and forth, torn about something. He quickly lowered his hat again and pretended to breathe deeply. It was the kindest way he could think to hint at a dismissal.

The next thing he knew, he had grass stuffed into his mouth.

He sat up like a wind-up toy, sputtering. “For all that is good and holy!”

But the young lady was already running away. “You’ll thank me later,” she called over her shoulder. “Be careful not to overindulge in the drink next time.”

Overindulge? Incredible nonsense. And why on earth had she shoved grass in his mouth? Was she trying to suffocate him? Was she so angry about her cousin that she thought to get rid of the male gender altogether? She was mad! He wiped at his tongue and spat on the ground.

This was yet another reason why he wouldn’t marry. Never would his mother convince him that a woman could bring him happiness. Nor could his father convince him that one would benefit his position in Society. Ian was better off alone. No single pair of brown eyes would induce him to change his mind. Women were deceivingly pretty but unpredictably dangerous.

Who else would think grass was an appropriate weapon? There was a lingering sweet-and-cool sensation on his tongue now—an odd aftertaste for grass. He focused on his ire instead, because that woman was not sweet or cooling for his temper. His nap—or lack thereof—was permanently ruined. There was no way he could relax enough to sleep now.

This trip had solidified his plans. He was determined to refuse his father at all costs. Women were a nuisance and not worth the gamble of becoming emotionally involved with. His father had shown him how marriage was nothing more than a means to an end, and Ian would be more creative than that and think of a better alternative.

“Unbelievable,” he muttered, glancing in the direction Miss Brown Eyes had fled. And to think, he’d actually felt sorry for her. He glanced at his grandfather’s headstone, wishing someone had witnessed this insufferable moment. But the headstone prompted thoughts of his grandfather’s marriage—riddled with problems. Of all his notable accomplishments, why could Grandfather not have been faithful to his wife? And how could he set his own son up for the same future?

The answers eluded Ian, but what he knew of the past was enough to confirm his choice. Heartbreak ran thick in their family’s blood. Marriage was not for him.