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Chapter One
"Then what you're saying is that I have to sell myself," the gentleman said.
"Good Heavens, my lord!" the stout middle-aged man answered. "What a dreadful way to look at it."
"Honest, not dreadful, Mr. Foster," the gentleman replied. He didn't move a muscle in his face, nor did his long, lean body stir in his chair. But his still posture and the look in his cold gray eyes made the other man nervous.
"Finding someone to marry is nothing like a sale," Mr. Foster quickly said.
"Then you've never been to Almacks, or to a ton party, I suppose?" the gentleman asked. "There, I assure you, it is the females who are on sale, apart from a few desperate gentleman paupers with nothing to their names but their names." He paused. "I realize I'm now one of them, but I don't want to be."
"It is tradition that the lady's family provide her with a dowry and make a settlement—" the other man began to say.
He was ruthlessly cut off. "The dowry is standard, the settlement is an act of good faith offered to a gentleman who has equal or more funds of his own. As a successful man-of-business you should know this, Mr. Foster. And as you also know, I have nothing to offer."
Mr. Foster took in a deep breath. "That's true, so far as money goes. Your estate and town house is entailed. There's little left in them anyway except for those heirlooms you refuse to part with. Nor can I blame you for it. Worthy as they are, they wouldn't fetch enough to help you over the long term. Your coffers are empty. You didn't empty them, but in trying to fill them after your father's depredations . . ."
"My stepmother's depredations," the gentleman corrected him.
"Both then. And yours."
"I see," the gentleman said coldly. "I should have left my brother to die here in England when I was told the air on the warmer shores of Italy might help him live? And it is. He is healing, and breathing freely again. That was and is an unavoidable expense. I grant I made some bad investments. But I neither gambled nor wenched nor drank my fortunes away. My ancestors took care of most of that. My stepmother wasted what was left. Now you tell me my only recourse is to marry for money?"
Lord Ian Sutcombe, Marquis Sutcombe, stood up and paced, keeping his high-nosed profile averted from the other man as he did. "The ladies of the ton don't want me now. They know my financial condition and set their sights higher. I can't blame them. Am I to marry someone whose family is desperate to have her married? Perhaps a wealthy half-wit or deranged woman? Or maybe a commoner, someone with no manners or intelligence? No, Mr. Foster, I care too much for my name to burden it with idiots and fools. We've had enough of them."
"Then you have your eye on some suitable female?" his man of business asked eagerly. "Perhaps there's still a chance . . ."
"Suitable? None, because I never looked to marry. I had hoped to leave that to my brother."
Mr. Foster sighed. He studied his client carefully, noting the well-cut blue jacket that had been brushed once too often, the clean linen that had been washed too frequently to be absolutely snowy, the well-made boots that still took a shine, but showed their age. The gentleman was dressed elegantly, with care and taste, but that elegance was strained. The marquis's hard-edged face showed none of this. Though he had thick, dark gold hair and clear gray eyes, his lordship was not a handsome man in the current poetical style. It was a face of crags and planes, the only softening feature, the cleft in his determined chin. He looked more like a Roman Centurion than a nobleman. But females found him wildly attractive. They flocked to him to win one smile from that firm mouth. The long thin scar that ran from his ear down his cheek to his jaw, earned in the wars before he inherited his title and had to come home, made him appear even more dashing.
The man looked every inch a member of the aristocracy. Unfortunately, Mr. Foster thought, his tastes followed suit. He was high in the instep and low in his regard for other ¬people's intelligence. While never rude without meaning to be, his eyes and his silences nevertheless spoke volumes about his opinions.
"Then there is only one solution," Mr. Foster said. "You can't learn a new career quickly."
"As well I know," the gentleman said softly.
"And you cannot go into Trade."
Now Lord Sutcombe smiled. "I have nothing to trade, nothing to stock and nothing to sell."
"So. My lord, you have obligations, and must have a roof over your head as well as over your brother's. And you must maintain your holdings and their staffs. There's nothing for it except to marry well. Though you have no money, you have a great deal to offer even so. You have a fine ancient title and are accepted everywhere. You have the estate, and it is noteworthy. Your house in London is magnificent."
"Or would be if it had furnishings," Lord Sutcombe murmured.
"Precisely. You have other holdings in the countryside and a charming cottage in the West Country, all sadly entailed as well. But as for yourself, you're relatively young, healthy, considered well-enough-looking, and clever. If you'd only hold your famous scathing remarks, my lord . . ." He saw his guest's face and hurriedly added, "I don't mean you must demean yourself, or bend out of shape in order to be endearing."
"Endearing?" the marquis echoed, his eyes opening wide.
"Engaging, is what I meant to say. If you tried to be more conciliatory, we could find you a charming female, and a new fortune that would come with her."
A Bride for His Convenience. Copyright © by Edith Layton. Reprinted by permission of HarperCollins Publishers, Inc. All rights reserved. Available now wherever books are sold.
Excerpted from A Bride for His Convenience by Edith Layton
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