Page 1 of Six Nights to Marry a Marquess

CHAPTER 1

“In matters of the heart, my dear Emma,” Agnes Young, sighed dramatically as she delicately plucked another dainty sandwich from the silver platter before her, “love is as irresistible as this cucumber sandwich. But alas, it appears to be fleeing from us this season.”

She was sitting on a blanket in Green Park with her dearest friends, Emma Lovell and Frances Hughes, sharing their romantic woes.

“I must concur with you on that sentiment, Aggie,” Emma said with a resigned sigh that competed with Agnes’. “It seems our charms have quite the opposite effect on gentlemen—repelling rather than attracting them.” She plopped a grape into her mouth and chewed with frustration.

“Oh, come now, ladies! Let us not lose hope so soon. The season is very young; there is still ample time to secure those desirable matches,” Frances encouraged brightly.

Emma couldn’t help but let out a soft snort at Frances’s hopeful outlook. “Quite easy for you to say, Frannie,” she retorted playfully yet enviously. Frances’ unexpected marriage last season had taken them all by surprise, but also managed to serve as a beacon of hope.

Surprised by Emma’s teasing jab, Frances stuttered momentarily before composing herself with a sheepish grin. “Ah well… Life does have its unexpected twists and turns, does it not?” she mused softly.

Agnes pursed her lips, suddenly reluctant to speak her mind. The whispers going around society about her lineage was the primary reason she was not attracting matches. They were true, of course, but her father would never admit it—for that would mean the end of her time in society. As far as everyone was concerned, she was the ward of a very respectable duke. Far from the illegitimacy she was associated with.

“Oh, heavens, do me the favor of letting a husband find me unexpectedly, that I might find respite from my father’s ceaseless orations and his fruitless attempts at matchmaking,” Emma implored with a theatrical glance skyward. This peculiar supplication sent Agnes and Frances into fits of laughter.

“Be that as it may, my dear Emma,” Agnes managed to say, dabbing the corners of her eyes as her laughter subsided, “I remain a steadfast believer in the concept of love. However, I am inclined to think it an exceedingly rare commodity.” She had not yet been touched by the flames of love, yet her belief inits untarnished purity was unwavering. Her family was enough evidence of its existence.

“I find myself in agreement with you, Aggie,” Frances intoned, her usual vivacity dimming slightly as she slipped into a moment of contemplation. Agnes had barely parted her lips to respond when an all-too-familiar voice interrupted their peaceful assembly.

“Oh, but of course, it shouldn’t astonish anyone. We are speaking of Gillingham, after all,” the voice declared, filled with scandalized glee that was impossible to ignore. Their gazes moved toward the source of the proclamation. The speaker was none other than Lady Kirkland—society’s most notorious gossip-monger, a title she wore with an almost regal bearing. She was surrounded by several other matrons, each lady hanging on to her every word.

“It appears as though Lady Kirkland has found herself a new subject for her ever-turning mill,” Frances observed, with a touch of sympathy for the unfortunate soul who had become the latest focus of society’s attention.

Agnes was glad the ladies were not talking about her, but then her tale was only whispers uttered in the most secluded of places. “And who might this Gillingham be?” she inquired curiously.

Emma leaned close to her. “If he has become the target of Lady Kirkland’s latest campaign, he must be a figure of considerable intrigue…or perhaps misfortune.”

“Or perchance, a delightful combination of both,” Agnes giggled.

“In all my years attending society events, never have I encountered a rake as notorious as him,” Lady Kirkland continued, strolling leisurely past them before pausing a few feet ahead—close enough for them to hear. “His late father, the old Marquess, had an insatiable thirst for drink and cards...”

“And now the son seems to have inherited his appetite, but for women,” another lady chimed in with a disdainful chuckle. “It won’t be long before he squanders whatever remains of his father’s fortune on his own pursuits,” she added with a shake of her head. The women resumed their walk, their voices fading.

Emma sighed in frustration. “With men like him roaming our society, it’s no wonder we struggle to find suitable matches.”

“We may not be rejected outright,” Agnes interjected softly. “We are simply not as fortunate as others.”

“Did someone mention fortune?” A deep male voice asked, his tone light and playful.

Agnes’ head snapped up, and before her stood a man too handsome to be real. For a moment, she wondered if it was her imagination at work, conjuring up this image to fuel her fantasies and lift her spirits.

“I must say I consider myself quite fortunate to stumble upon such a gathering of lovely ladies on this beautiful afternoon,” he continued, and her brows furrowed.

For a man with his looks, he was quite lacking in charm. In her opinion, at least. For Frances exchanged amused glances with Emma while Agnes still struggled to find humor in his words. When she looked at him again, she found his gaze intently on her. This sent a jolt through Agnes, contradicting the poor opinion of him that she was forming.

“It is impolite to stare,” she blurted before she could stop herself.

Despite finding his intense green gaze disconcerting, she likened it to a dense forest that beckoned exploration—a thought that caught her off guard. With a flourish, he bowed and revealed a red rose he had been hiding behind him. His smile, though capable of stealing her breath away, seemed contrived.What is the matter with this man?

“It is only fitting that such beauty is complemented by something equally exquisite,” he said as he extended the flower toward to her.

She hesitated, torn between accepting the gesture and questioning its sincerity. Why would he choose her of all people? Uncertain about this stranger’s intentions, Agnes hesitated before shaking her head, and turning away, prompting an unexpected change in his demeanor.

“I see you do not appreciate beauty when it is offered,” he remarked with a slight tilt of his dark head.

A pang of guilt pricked at Agnes’ conscience. Had she misjudged him?

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