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Lily gazed sightlessly at her floss, admitting the truth of it. She had quite been looking forward to meeting Mr. Ashby—a handsome gentleman of a similar age to herself, and one of the very few braving the marriage mart in search of a bride—and she had frightened him off within seconds of meeting him.

Biting her lip, she sighed heavily. She needed to find a match so her life could begin, but she did not want to settle for someone for whom she shared no affinity. Her unfortunate habit of overtalking was a gift when it came to warding off unwanted attentions, a crafty stratagem she had developed after reading the book on military strategy her cousin had given her. But craftiness did not help her be any more measured or composed when she met a man she could genuinely consider marrying, and a certain amount of shyness settled in.

Most men thought she was a silly flibbertigibbet. After three Seasons, she suspected they might be right. She was barely five feet tall, had the general appearance of a young girl dressed in the ridiculous white and pastels Mama insisted she wear despite her being over twenty years on this earth, and being a chatterbox reinforced the impression that she was merely an exuberant child.

“But I shall eventually meet the right gentleman. I could meet my future husband anytime and be betrothed within two weeks. I simply must persevere. Sophia met the earl only twice, and they wed within a week of their second dance, so my luck could change at any moment.”

Lily was relieved that her usual optimism had caught up with her. Her thoughts had been taking a cheerless turn, and she did not want to dwell on the passage of time nor her shortcomings. She was bright and friendly. When she wed, she could finally wear the rich colors that would accentuate her brown hair and chocolate eyes. Until then, she would need to persist in her quest to find the gentleman who would find her irrepressibly charming and make an offer to Papa.

“Is someone betrothed?” Nancy’s question brought her back to the present.

“No, Nancy! BUT I WISH TO BE. To the right man, of course.”

Nancy nodded politely, clearly not understanding.

“Perhaps now that Aidan is home, he could introduce me to some younger gentlemen. I wish to make a match with someone I will spend a lifetime with, not an old man who can barely hold himself up without my assistance, or is as old or older than Papa.”

“You wish to eat your supper?”

Lily frowned at the fabric in her hand, trying to work out what Nancy was going on about. “Not supper … PAPA!”

“Master Hugh is home?” Nancy swung her head round to the door to look for her young—old—charge, causing Lily to burst into a fit of giggles. Aidan could not leave her alone tomorrow night, because if she did not soon have a forthright conversation with someone who could actually hear her, she was sure to be committed to Bedlam before she could meet her match.

Noting the old maid stifling a yawn, Lily took pity and sent Nancy off with an affectionate shooing. She could not formally send her to bed so early in the evening, but she knew Nancy would find a comfortable spot to doze off until bedtime. Anyone who stumbled upon the old maid sleeping would simply turn a blind eye and wander off to a different part of the townhouse.

Brendan was enjoying a snifter of fine French brandy at his club, nestled in a corner armchair with the carved lion feet worn smooth by generations of noble indolence. The soft hum of muted conversation and the faint scent of leather-bound volumes usually provided a peaceful atmosphere. But today, it was shattered.

A horde of young men had descended. With the lords occupied by the coronation, evidently the clubs were being overrun by green fools taking advantage of the usual members’ absence to claim the prime seating and avoid the disapproving stares of their elders.

A particularly spirited group of dandies, clad in elegant black coats with gleaming buttons and precisely tied cravats, congregated around the betting book, placing demented wagers about the King’s coronation attire. One of the gents claimed inside knowledge, and the others responded with eager, ridiculous bets.

Brendan had come for quiet, to think on how best to free himself from the baron’s tiresome attention and to savor a well-earned drink. It had been a solid plan until the lads arrived and unraveled it with their noise and energy. He rubbed his temples in exasperation as the group began squabbling over the cost of the crown hatband on George IV’s plumed headpiece.

“Eight thousand pounds! I win!” one crowed, triggering a mild roar of protest from the others.

Brendan recalled making a few foolhardy wagers in his younger days, but the shine of those youthful antics had long since dulled. Reuniting with his sister three years earlier, and observing the quiet devotion that had bloomed between her and the Duke of Halmesbury, had stirred thoughts he had long buried. Thoughts of family. Of belonging.

It had been the arrival of his little nephew, with his mother’s brandy-colored eyes and the duke’s firm chin, that fully awakened the yearning.

The ennui with his current circumstances had truly set in when one of his closest friends, the Earl of Saunton, had unexpectedly wed Miss Sophia Hayward. Almost immediately, the earl’s younger brother, Peregrine Balfour, had dashed willingly into the parson’s noose with a young woman from the country, and the pair had disappeared into quiet Somerset life. Brendan could not help but feel the empty space they had left behind.

Genuine friends were thin on the ground these days, with only him and Lord Trafford left from their group to represent the bachelors about Town. Reflecting on this, Brendan supposed he had gained a certain ace of spades from the tangle of romantic changes around him, though not in the way others might think. The widow, Lady Slight, having been deeply offended by Peregrine Balfour’s rejection in favor of a country-bred bride, had at last turned her attentions elsewhere and shown Brendan a marked preference that flattered him, after what had been a long, elegant chase.

It had been a pleasant reprieve, he supposed. But even now, the thrill of it was fleeting. As each of his friends had done, he too wished, one day, to find a woman who challenged and inspired him. A woman whose presence lingered long after the wine was gone and the laughter had faded. But today was not that day, and the baron would not be the one to shepherd him toward such a life. Brendan would follow that path when he was good and ready and had found the right woman.

And not a moment earlier.

No one would make such a monumental decision on his behalf.

He finished his brandy and stood, looking about for anyone he knew, but most of the set were a couple of years younger than himself. He might be only seven-and-twenty, but he felt decidedly mature compared to this youthful, unruly crowd.

Drawing out his fob, he checked his timepiece and exhaled in relief. There was a certain vivid-haired beauty in Grosvenor Square who had hinted she would be at home to receive him this evening. Brendan pulled on his gloves and gathered his things, heading for the entrance. He sidestepped with practiced ease when one boy stumbled backward, swearing loudly, oblivious to who might be passing, as only a lad deep in drink could be.

Brendan bit back his irritation. He could still look forward to a peaceful evening—perhaps a warm welcome, a shared glass of wine, a moment of ease before he dealt with the baron in the morning.

Behind him, the boy fell to the ground with a loud thump. Brendan came to a halt. Looking around, he noticed none of the boy’s companions were paying the least attention to their friend sprawled on the floor. With a sigh, Brendan stepped back and dropped to one knee to assess the youth’s condition.

Oblivious.