How to Avoid the Marriage Mart Read online

  Her mother resumed reading out her list of the most eligible men. Charlotte knew she would most certainly not be making a play for Nicholas. Nor would she be smiling at him or laughing at his jokes. And as she already had her suspicions about what he had got up to in Europe, she certainly would not be asking him about that.

  ‘Right,’ her mother said, coming to the end of the list, removing her spectacles and placing them back in her reticule. ‘Chin up, Charlotte, shoulders back. Let’s return to the drawing room and find you a husband. And for goodness’ sake, smile.’

  * * *

  Life would be so much less complicated for Nicholas Richmond if Lady Charlotte FitzRoy was happily married with scores of children. And life would be even easier if he wasn’t the Duke of Kingsford and the target of every young woman who wanted to elevate her position in society. He smiled politely at the blonde debutante as she twittered on about something. What was she talking about now? The weather for tomorrow’s shoot, or was it the state of the grounds and how it would affect the pheasants? He was unsure. All he knew was that he’d rather be anywhere else than this infernal shooting party, but the Marquess of Boswick had insisted he attend.

  The Marquess had about as much interest in shooting as Nicholas did—his younger, more athletic brother had arranged this party. For the Marquess this weekend would be all about gambling and that was why he had demanded Nicholas’s presence. He had taken a sizeable amount of money off the Marquess during their all-night gambling sessions at their London club and Boswick was hoping to recoup his losses with some serious card sessions this weekend.

  The brunette debutante interrupted her friend, causing the blonde to sneer momentarily before she remembered herself and beamed another smile up at Nicholas. She then laughed lightly as if she was having the most delightful time. Nicholas smiled back at her and stifled a yawn. It was going to be a long weekend, that was for certain.

  Charlotte and her mother, the Dowager Duchess of Knightsbrook, re-entered the room. The Dowager Duchess was smiling and nodding to various guests as they moved through the crowded room, while Charlotte followed on behind, a look on her face that suggested she was as excited to be here as he felt. She sent a quick glance in his direction, then looked away.

  Despite that look of annoyance that was distorting her pretty lips, she was undoubtedly the most attractive woman in the room. An unconventional beauty, her skin was lightly tanned and even from this distance he could see the row of dark freckles that dotted her straight nose and high cheekbones. Most women moved heaven and earth to ensure their skin was never touched by the sun, desperate to maintain their alabaster complexion. But not Charlotte.

  He smiled to himself as he remembered the arguments she had had with her mother over her appearance. Charlotte loved to be outside in all types of weather. Her mother was constantly trying to get her to stay indoors, or at least to wear a hat, or carry a parasol, but every argument fell on deaf ears.

  Nor could her mother get her to take an interest in fashion and it looked as though the Dowager was still failing in that pursuit. Unlike the other women in the room, who were dressed in flowing, embroidered gowns of satin and lace, Charlotte wore a plain dark blue skirt and an equally plain cream blouse. Nor was she adorned with jewellery or wearing fashionable flowers and feathers in her chestnut-brown hair. Instead her hair was pulled back tightly into a simple bun at the back of her neck.

  And she looked beautiful. The most stunning woman he had ever seen. She had taken his breath away when she was eighteen and the years had only improved her appearance. She was no longer a young lady, but a woman, and she was even more enchanting for it. The slight figure had filled out and she was now all womanly curves, slim waist, full breasts and lusciously rounded hips.

  Damn her. Why did she have to be even more beautiful?

  She flicked another look in his direction and he couldn’t help but remember how she had looked when she had gazed up at him with those dark brown eyes on the night they had kissed. The colour of her eyes had such depth to them, just like the woman herself. He sighed lightly. She would never look up at him like that again, with such passion, such fervour. He pushed that memory away. He had made the right choice five years ago and there was no point questioning his decision now.

  Instead, he looked back down at the young blonde debutante, who was still laughing and chatting happily. He stifled another yawn. Charlotte was one young woman who had never bored him. He had always enjoyed her company, her wry humour and the unique way she looked at the world.

  And, unlike the young women surrounding him now, she could not be accused of chasing after a man with a title. During her first Season he had been merely the spare, his brother the heir in line to inherit the title. Despite his lack of status, she had made her interest in him clear. Too clear.

  Her behaviour had sorely tested his determination to act the perfect gentleman when she had kissed him. They should never have kissed—even that was taking more liberties than a man ever should take with an unmarried young lady. But they had and he’d had to fight hard not to release the passion that had been building up inside him like a capped volcano. And then, in her naivety, she had said she wanted more than just his kisses. In her unique, no-nonsense manner she had told him she wanted him to show her what lovemaking between a man and woman was like. She had matter-of-factly told him that she had no intention of marrying, but also had no intentions of remaining a virgin.

  That was five years ago. It seemed as though it was both yesterday and a lifetime ago. The temptation to do as she asked had been all but overwhelming, but for once in his life Nicholas had done the right thing. He had untangled her arms from around his neck and told her no. It had been bad enough that he had kissed a debutante, but he would do nothing else to ruin her reputation. It had taken a level of self-control he had not thought he possessed and it was a decision he was both proud of and bitterly regretted. He had fought every impulse in his body and put the need to preserve a young woman’s reputation ahead of his own physical needs. And he had been rewarded for his gallantry with an outburst from Charlotte that had cut him to the quick then and still smarted.

  ‘What use are you to me, then?’ she had said, her face burning, her fists clenched at her side. ‘Why else do you think I’d be interested in a man like you if it wasn’t so you could teach me about physical love? It’s not as if I’d be interested in you for your sparkling conversation, your wit or your intelligence.’

  With that she had left and had refused to speak to him again.

  Not long after that he had left for Europe. As the spare son of a duke his family expected him to either join the army or the church, neither of which suited Nicholas’s temperament. The prospect of barking out orders to subordinates, or, even worse, being expected to follow orders, filled him with disdain. As for the church, the thought of him becoming a pious country vicar would be comical if it wasn’t horrifying. It took Charlotte FitzRoy to force him into making a decision on what his future would hold. Escaping to Europe enabled him to put some distance from Charlotte and he could bury all memories of her in the time-honoured fashion of a young aristocrat on the Continent. He’d indulged himself in every vice he could, with an emphasis on gambling, drinking, women and wild parties. He had become the man Charlotte accused him of being, a rake with no conscience, who thought only of indulging in pointless pleasure.

  And the European gambling dens and houses of ill repute were where he would have stayed if his brother’s untimely death from consumption and his father’s passing hadn’t meant he inherited the dukedom. He’d been forced back to England to reluctantly take up his title and the responsibilities of running the estate. But even that, it seemed, was not enough. His mother now wanted him married and producing the heir and the spare as soon as possible.

  He looked over at his mother, who was smiling at him encouragingly while talking to the mother of the blonde debutante. As soon as she had heard he was attending this shooting party at the Boswick estate, his mother had insisted on accompanying him. The reason for that was obvious. As she never tired of telling him, he was twenty-eight now and it was high time he settled down with a suitable wife.

  Unfortunately, on that, his mother was going to be disappointed. He had resolved not to marry many years ago, when he was still just the spare second son, when ambitious mothers steered their daughters away from him and on to more advantageous targets. Becoming the Duke had changed his mother’s attitude to him, but had not changed his attitude to marriage. He was determined to remain unmarried and without an heir. After all, it hardly mattered. The title could just as easily be passed on to some other branch of the family, but remaining single would ensure he would not have to endure the torturous marriages that his parents and so many others were forced to suffer through.

  He looked over at Charlotte. She was now standing beside her mother and staring into space, while an elderly man looked her up and down as if assessing a thoroughbred horse that had just come on the market. The elderly gent was so obvious in his inspection. Nicholas almost expected him to ask Charlotte to open her mouth so he could check the quality of her teeth.

  As bad as these marriage mart parties were for a man, they were far worse for a woman. He looked down at the growing group of debutantes surrounding him and could see the desperation behind their smiles. Women had so few choices in life. If they didn’t make a good marriage, they had to throw themselves on the mercy of their family and hope they would support them. If their family was unwilling, then they’d have to find work as a governess or companion to some wealthy woman, or risk ending up living in poverty, with all the dangers that presented for a woman.

  And often marriage wa
s not much better for them. His own mother was testament to that. She had married the man her family deemed suitable because he had a good title and substantial income. No one cared that her marriage was a misery right from the start and only got worse with each passing year. At least he had the option of remaining single, an option he was determined to exercise. Yes, life could certainly be hard for a woman.

  He sent the debutantes sympathetic smiles, to let them know that he understood how difficult this was for them.

  Big mistake.

  Their faces lit up as if they’d been illuminated by modern electric lightbulbs. Their smiles grew wider. Their eyelashes batted faster. The blonde opened her fan, flicked it in front of her face and gave him a coy, encouraging look. The other women instantly followed her example, their fans moving in front of their faces at a rapid rate.

  Nicholas’s reassuring smile died slowly. If he was going to survive this weekend, he was going to have to remember at all times—do nothing to encourage the debutantes. The pheasants were not the only prey at this shooting party. He, too, was being mercilessly hunted down and, if he was to avoid being trapped, cornered and potentially bagged, he was going to have to adopt some stringent survival tactics.

  Chapter Two

  Charlotte swallowed down the scream that was welling up inside her. She was tempted to yell at her mother to stop. She did not want to marry Baron Itchly or any other man, so her mother could just stop right now in this relentless, fruitless pursuit of a husband.

  She wanted to grab her mother by the shoulders, shake her and let her know in no uncertain terms that the only reason she was standing in this drawing room was because she wanted to ask the Marquess of Boswick to donate money to the charity hospital. That was it. Nothing else. She was not in pursuit of a husband, she was in pursuit of a patron.

  As the second richest man in the room the Marquess would make an ideal patron for the hospital. Nicholas Richmond was the richest, so he would be even better. But there was no way she was going to ask that man for anything.

  She looked over at the Marquess of Boswick, chatting and laughing with a group of young women. As soon as possible she would ask him about donating money to the hospital, then she would leave this wretched weekend party. But it looked as though he, too, was enjoying flirting with a group of admiring young women. She had enough diplomatic skills to know that interrupting a man when he was flirting with a pretty girl would not be to her advantage.

  So, until she could get the Marquess’s undivided attention she was going to have to continue to endure this ongoing horror.

  Charlotte tried to block out her mother’s voice as she itemised her daughter’s supposed virtues and accomplishments to Baron Itchly, but found it impossible, particularly now that her mother’s behaviour had descended to a deeper, even more desperate level. She had moved on from praising Charlotte to denigrating all the other young women present, causing Charlotte’s raging temper to flare up several more degrees. To make matters even worse, this particularly elderly gent was on the bottom of the list of potential conquests. He was the one her mother had listed as the easiest catch in the room. Charlotte hated to think what her mother was going to say to men further up the list, the ones who presented more of a challenge. And if she actually made it to the top of the list of eligible men, to Nicholas, the possibilities of what her mother might do or say were too horrendous to even contemplate.

  A groan of despair escaped Charlotte’s lips.

  Please, please, Mother, do not speak to Nicholas, she silently begged.

  Fighting hard, she tried not to look in his direction, but her eyes seemed incapable of following that one simple instruction and, as if under their own volition, they moved to where he was so nonchalantly leaning against the fireplace. It was just as she expected. He was still surrounded by his group of adoring young women, all primping and preening, their fluttering fans making their intent all too obvious. And Nicholas was still smiling at them, basking in all the adoration.

  Like some sort of Roman god surrounded by infatuated nymphs, he was in his element. Although this god was thankfully not dressed in a toga. The last thing she needed to see was Nicholas’s naked muscular chest and shoulders. But, damn him, even in formal evening wear he still looked god-like. Charlotte did not usually use words like damn, but in this instance, it was the only word that would suffice. Damn him for being so handsome. And damn him for looking so good in his evening suit.

  While the women were wearing embroidered gowns of every colour and were adorned with sparkling jewels, coloured feathers and delicate lace, the men were all attired in the same identical black suits with white shirt and tie. But Nicholas wore it so much better.

  He gazed in her direction, forcing Charlotte to flick her eyes back to her mother, her teeth gritting together so tightly her jaw was starting to hurt.

  Damn him, she did not want him to make her feel even more uncomfortable than she already was, but all he had to do to raise her discomfort level from barely tolerable to completely insufferable was to look at her with those captivating blue eyes.

  It was bad enough having to put up with her mother marketing her to any old eligible man as though she was a prize cow, but having to do it in the presence of that man was more than anyone should be expected to endure.

  Charlotte simply could not put up with this torture a second longer. If she couldn’t speak to the Marquess of Boswick tonight, then there was no point staying in this drawing room and continuing to subject herself to this ordeal.

  ‘Will you excuse me for a moment,’ she interrupted the Baron, who was describing his estate to her mother. It seemed she had passed muster and they were already getting down to politely discussing financial arrangements.

  They both looked at her and smiled. ‘Yes, you run along, dear,’ her mother said. ‘The Baron and I have much to talk about.’

  Charlotte glowered at her mother. How could she possibly think that her daughter would even consider marrying this elderly man with a tobacco-stained, grey walrus moustache and red watery eyes? As soon as she was alone with her mother, she would tell her in no uncertain terms.

  Why her mother would want her to marry at all was something Charlotte could never understand. Her mother’s own marriage had been a misery, as were the marriages of so many members of the aristocracy. They were negotiated like business transactions and had little or nothing to do with whether the couple were compatible. And once married, the woman had just one role, to produce children, while the man continued to have complete freedom and could do as he pleased. And men like her father took full advantage of that freedom. Throughout her childhood her father had hosted countless drunken gambling parties at Knightsbrook that sometimes went on for weeks at a time. He either did not know or did not care what effect such debauchery was having on his wife and children. Charlotte would think a caring mother would want to save her daughter from that unhappiness, rather than trying to foist her on to any available man, no matter how unsuitable.

  She crossed the room, her body rigid with pent-up anger, desperate to escape the stultifying atmosphere of the drawing room. She nodded her thanks to the footman as he opened the door for her and, as the door closed behind her, she breathed a sigh of relief, the tension starting to lose its tight grip on her shoulders.

  She looked up and down the long black-and-white-tiled hallway lined with its statues, oil paintings and large ornate displays of flowers in enormous vases. She was still too agitated to retire to her bedroom, but she had no idea where she wanted to spend the rest of the evening. All she knew was she had to get away from her mother and her relentless matchmaking. With no destination in mind she strolled down the hallway, admiring the artwork on the walls.

  Coping with her mother’s behaviour was getting harder and harder with each passing Season. It didn’t matter how many times she insisted she had no interest in marrying anyone, ever, her mother refused to listen.

  She knew her mother still harboured hopes that she would marry a wealthy man, one who would ensure Charlotte would be able to live in the level of luxury that the FitzRoys had once seen as their birthright. Thanks to her father’s and her grandfathers’ gambling the formerly prosperous Knightsbrook estate was all but bankrupt. Her brother, Alexander, the new Duke of Knightsbrook, and his wife, Rosie, were working hard to modernise the estate and pay off the mountain of debts, but it would be many years, if ever, before the family returned to its once prosperous state.