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Authors: Kate Noble

Tags: #Fiction, #Romance, #Historical, #General

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BOOK: Follow My Lead
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A Letter in Response from a Brother to His Sister:
 
May 1, 1821
 
Dear Jane—
 
I object to a number of items in your last letter, in the following order:
1.
Twenty-nine is an excellent age for a man to marry.
2.
I am not baby-faced. Red hair simply doesn’t grow as visibly on the chin as dark. (As you should know—didn’t you have a slight mustache in your formative years?) I promise you, my valet grumbles every morning when he takes a blade to my jaw.
3.
I am not a piece of meat, meant to be weighed, measured, and purchased. I believe in the horrific, cutthroat world of metropolitan marriage machinations that you have concocted in your head, the young ladies in question would be the meat for choosing, not I.
4.
I believe I will be able to handle what is bound to be a fairly easy decision. I’ll be fine without you.
5.
So I bribed your daughter with sweets to like me. It was not difficult; she was far too innocent and susceptible. I merely succeeded as an uncle, whereas you have failed as a parent. I win.
As for Mr. Johnston and his bar stool—FOR GOD’S SAKE, THAT WAS FIVE YEARS AGO.
 
Yours, etc.
Jason
A Letter in Response to the Response to the Letter from a Sister to Her Brother:
 
May 17, 1821
 
Dear Jason—
 
You may think that I am callous and cruel, and that I do not know that you are very much your own man, allergic to coddling. I know you well enough to realize that since you have set your mind on this path, you will not alter. And of course I admire your determination to do this on your own (something you attempt all too rarely). But since you have long avoided the Season and its high-minded trappings, you must be forewarned: You are not seeking these women. You are the prey. Hunted. Stalked. Soft flesh to be pulled from the bone in easy strips, marinated, roasted, and served up in golden foils. (You must forgive me the imagery in the preceding sentence. Byrne remarks that my condition makes me terribly carnivorous.) That said, the invitation to the lake is always open, should you change your mind. I will even refrain from saying “I told you so,” should occasion call for it.
 
Yours, etc.
Jane
 
P.S. I did not and do not have a mustache. But if you can compare your beard to a clean-faced woman, I doubt your valet grumbles about the hard work—more, its lack of necessity.
A Letter from a Brother to His Sister, in Angry, Protesting Tones:
 
May 24, 1821
 
Jane—
 
I am purposely ignoring your jab at my rare attempts at responsibility (and my beard, which I may grow out just to spite you) if only because I have to meet with the estate stewards, who wish me to sign off on many ducal things, which you would simply not understand. But only after this morning’s session of the House of Lords. My secretaries tell me it is a terribly important vote. (Although how corn can constitute legislation, I have no idea.) So, as you see, if I am able to manage the rigors of a dukedom, surely I can manage to pluck a bride from the petticoated masses.
 
Yours, etc.
Jason
A Piece of News Taken from the Pages of a Particularly Well-Read and Influential Scandal Sheet:
 
May 25, 1821
An uproarious fracas occurred last night at the home of Mr. and Mrs. R—as they presented their youngest daughter to society in a tragically average fete . . . average, that is, except for the Locking of the Duke.
Lord C—, Duke of an ancient estate and impeccable lineage, and undisputedly the most sought-after potential husband in England, was found locked in a storage room in the cellar of Mr. R—’s house in St. James, with not one, not two, but three young debutantes!
Upon their rescue, the Duke’s countenance vacillated between blanched horror and utter relief as each of the three girls claimed the Duke had been caught in a compromising situation with her, and therefore they must marry. Luckily, logic was provided by one of the assembled bystanders: a young Miss F—, whose debutante status belies a sound and reasoning mind. She deftly pointed out that Lord C—had compromised none of them, as they each had provided chaperonage for the others, and unless two of the girls were willing to testify that something inappropriate had occurred with the remaining miss, no impropriety could be claimed beyond the discovery of sadly rusted and sticky doorknobs. As the grasping girls squabbled over which of them would claim compromise, and claim the Duke (and his enormous fortune) in turn, their story fell apart, and the lucky man was afforded the narrowest of all possible social escapes.
Unsurprisingly, the Duke’s carriage was spied on the north road out of town early this morning. The author cannot blame him. Three shrill debutantes are enough to drive your average man insane—let us be thankful that our Duke merely drives to the country.
A Letter from a Brother to His Sister:
 
May 26, 1821
 
Dear Jane—
 
I feel I may have acted rashly in refusing your invitation to visit, and as such, have decided to remedy my mistake. Immediately . . .
And don’t you dare say, “I told you so.”
A Letter from a Sister to Her Brother:
 
Jase—
 
Never fear. I shan’t say, “I told you so.” I’ll let Byrne do it.
 
Jane
One
Wherein our hero must confront his truest fear.
May 1822
 
T
HIRTY is an excellent age for a man to marry. It is a nice round number. A number that, when read in the papers in a wedding announcement, seems neither too old nor too young, and yet at the same time, a declaration of adulthood and intelligence. Thus, Lord Jason Cummings, Marquis of Vessey, and more recently, the Duke of Rayne, was determined to do it. Marry, that is. At the round, sensible age of thirty.
Granted, he had determined something similar last year, at the not round, but prime and robust, nine and twenty. A mature age—an age at which men slough off the last of their youth and embrace their futures. And marriage is a strong way to declare that intention. After all, most of his friends had already gotten married. His best friend from school, Nevill Quincy-Frosham, was the last person he ever expected to fall into the parson’s trap, being as Nevill was without a doubt the most irresponsible human being in all of Britain, second only perhaps to his brother Charles. But, somehow, Nevill had been hitched to a smart little heiress since the previous winter. She controlled the purse strings and allotted the brandy, and Nevill, confoundingly, couldn’t be happier. Charles, too, had managed to find a young lady willing to look past his puppyish demeanor and marry him. So, last year, Jason had determined to find a bride in that annual exercise in buying, selling, and trading known as the Season.
Oh, that wasn’t fair. Jason was not that cynical. At least, he hadn’t been until last Season, when at the still far-too-young-to-be-married age of nine and twenty he had been hunted, stalked, giggled at, and swooned over by the far too eager baby-faced debutantes with claws like steel and mothers with the beady eyes of vultures.
Jason was aware enough of his own attributes, good and bad, to know he was not the type that women swooned over.
Then again, he was a Duke. A young Duke, and perhaps, a manageably good-looking one—despite the curse of his red hair. And as a Duke, he knew the lack of marriageable Dukes in England made him a rare breed, red hair and lack of swoonable attributes or no. He’d fully expected his entrance on the marriage mart to be met with a certain amount of interest.
Interest. That was an understatement.
Jason had spent years avoiding the tepid affairs of Almack’s, coming-out balls, tea and cards, and droning musicales that made up “good” society. He’d expected to be bored. And he was. But he had not expected to be bored and, simultaneously, scared out of his wits.
The plan to marry at twenty-nine died a quick death when he found himself locked in a cellar with three of the most frightening creatures he had ever encountered: Miss Rollins, Miss Quigley, and Miss Halloway.
And now, he found himself seriously questioning the wisdom to marry at the age of thirty, seeing as he was cornered by the same Miss Rollins, Miss Quigley, and Miss Halloway at Phillippa Worth’s garden party.
“Ladies, please!” he exclaimed, stopping their overlapping dialogue—that seemed to be aimed at him, but damned if he could tell what they were talking about. “It’s so . . .
interesting
to see you all again.”
BOOK: Follow My Lead
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