Much Ado About Kissing (Howertys #4)

Prologue

London, England
May 24, 1816

Lady Miranda Howerty was the catch of the Season. Everybody said so. She had a lovely and engaging demeanour, was the daughter and sister of a marquess, and—the main reason she had caught the attention of Marcus Dashcombe, the Duke of Winterbourne—she had a sizeable dowry. Seeking out the young lady was the sole reason he now found himself at one of the Season's busiest balls, something he ordinarily avoided at all costs. He was not a man inclined to indulge, and he certainly was not a man who enjoyed overcrowded ballrooms.

"I am not comfortable with this." His friend, Gabriel Winter, said next to him. "You cannot decide to marry a woman before you meet her."

"Why not? I have given it great thought. I compiled a list of all ladies currently available that suit my needs, and Lady Miranda came out well above the others. She ticks all the boxes."

Winter groaned. "You cannot approach marriage like a business transaction, or a scientific experiment."

"I don't see why not."

"Because human emotions cannot be quantified on a list." Winter shook his head in amazement and ran a hand through his blond hair. "I cannot believe I have to explain this."

Ignoring his friend's disapproving look, Marcus swept his gaze over the crowded ballroom. Lady Yates's annual ball was one of the most popular events of the Season, and anyone worth their salt was attending. He would have very much preferred to stay home to pore over the reports from the Rose Agency he co-owned with Winter, or enjoy a glass of brandy with a good book. However, he would not find a wife from the comfort of his office. Much to his dismay.

"My mind is made up. This is the best course of action. I need an influx of cash before it's too late. You know this."

His father had been a strict man who had instilled the sense and weight of duty on Marcus since an early age—while also mismanaging the ducal estate to the point where Marcus had found himself at the brink of ruin when he inherited the estate two years prior. What his father had not lost in poor investments, he had gambled away in the bowels of London's gambling dens in some mad hope he could win his fortune back. He did not.

"I do, but I wish you'd chosen someone else." Winter ran a hand through his hair. "The Howertys are well-respected, and I am friends with her brother. Trust me, he will not take kindly to someone who doesn't treat his sister right."

Marcus frowned. "I have no intention of treating any wife of mine badly. She will be well taken care of."

"Not what I meant."

He turned to his friend, meeting his disapproving scowl with a look of bored disinterest he knew would annoy him. "It's quite simple. Lady Miranda is on her second season, and—from what I have heard—more popular now even than before. She's turned down several proposals, and by now the betting books at White's are filled with bets on who will finally win her hand. And some other rather unsavoury bets, but let us not talk about those." Turning away again, he scanned the guests, wondering who might be the mythical lady in question. "Whoever wins her hand in marriage stands to make a small fortune, and that's not even counting her dowry. Every unattached gentleman in London wishes to court her at this point. I'm only doing what everyone else already is."

"Except they probably met her before deciding to marry her," Winter muttered.

"Semantics." He lifted his shoulders in a dismissive shrug. It wasn't that he couldn't see what his friend took issue with. This wasn't exactly something he was proud of, but he saw little other recourse. He had invested his time in the private investigation firm he had opened with Winter, and while they were doing well, they were not doing well enough that he could take money to infuse his failing estate.