Jacquie D’Alessandro - Who Will Take This Man?

The first book in the Regency Historical series, 2003

This book is dedicated with my love and gratitude to Jenni Grizzle. Jenni, when the chips were down, you brought salsa and turned the blues into a party. And to Wendy Etherington for bringing chocolate and champagne to the party. Thanks for being such terrific buds. I’m not sure what I did to deserve such loyal friends, but I’m sure glad I did it!

And, as always, to my wonderful, supportive husband, Joe, a man who didn’t have to ask twice Will You Take Me?, and my incredible, makes-me-so-proud son, Christopher, aka I’ll Take You Too, Junior .

I would like to take this opportunity to thank the following people for their invaluable help and support:

My editors, Carrie Feron and Erika Tsang, for their kindness, cheerleading, and wonderful ideas; my agents, Damaris Rowland and Steve Axelrod, for their faith and wisdom; my husband, Joe, for all the hours he spent helping me with my research; my mom and dad, Kay and Jim Johnson, for a lifetime of love and support; my sister, Kathy Guse, whom I am very proud of; my in-laws, Lea and Art D’Alessandro, for the priceless gift of their son; my sister-in-law, Brenda D’Alessandro, for being lots of fun and the world’s best shopper; Melissa Beaty, Belinda Allen, and Ann Wonycott for the great booksignings; Kathy Baker, DeeAnn Kline, and George Scott, booksellers extraordinaire, for their kindness and support; Michelle, Steve, and Lindsey Grossman for all the laughs and fun and for being such great peeps; and a cyber hug to Connie Brockway, Marsha Canham, Virginia Henley, Jill Gregory, Sandy Hingston, Julia London, Kathleen Givens, Sherri Browning, and Julie Ortolon. You Looney Loopies are the best!

Thanks to Debbie Beazley, Angie Bowman, Linda Chambers, Dana Grindstaff, Alison Kane, Paula Mullin, Jennifer Murray, Jeannie Pierannunzi, Sharon Ramsey, Lauren Ronco, and Lori Snow, not just for the fun of tennis, but for providing so much inspiration for future stories.

A very special thank-you to the members of Georgia Romance Writers.

And finally, thank you to all the wonderful readers who have taken the time to write or e-mail me. I love hearing from you!

D ear P hilip,

Due to your continued refusal to see to your own arrangements, I am writing to inform you that your damn wedding has been planned. Precisely whom you will be marrying has not yet been determined, but rest assured, the nuptials will take place in London on September first, and unlike the last damn wedding I arranged for you three years ago, I expect you to show up this time. Indeed, I demand it. While you’ve been traipsing about Egyptian sand dunes in search of rusty relics, my health has fallen into a decline. According to Doctor Gibbens I have less than a year left, and I’ll see you married and assuming your proper place in Society, perhaps even with an heir on the way, before I cock up my toes.

As you no longer have the luxury of time to engage in a lengthy courtship, I have hired a matchmaker to find you a suitable wife. Unfortunately, given the scandal that ensued when you failed to appear for your last damn wedding, Miss Chilton-Grizedale faces a daunting challenge. However, she is a formidable negotiator and has promised to find a chit who will make you an admirable viscountess. With Miss Chilton-Grizedale overseeing the wedding arrangements down to the last detail, all you need to do is show up. Make damn certain you do.

With regards,

Your father

M eredith Chilton-Grizedale pursed her lips and stroked her chin as she slowly circled Lady Sarah Markham, who stood upon the dressmaker’s platform. Meredith’s gaze critiqued the slender form garbed in the elegant, pale blue wedding gown, noting every detail, from the demure square neckline to the elaborate ruffled flounce. A satisfied smile threatened to curl her lips upward, but she staunchly subdued it. One could not afford to be too effusive when dealing with Madame Renee, Oxford Street’s most exclusive milliner. For every compliment Madame received, she clearly felt compelled to increase her already exorbitant prices.

“You look lovely, Lady Sarah,” Meredith said. “Lord Greybourne will be besotted the moment he sees you.” A tiny flutter of something that felt suspiciously like envy rippled through Meredith, surprising and irritating her. She slapped the feeling aside like a bothersome insect and gazed at the beautiful young woman standing before her. Pride instantly supplanted her errant twinge of envy.

Oh, she had indeed arranged a brilliant match on Lord Greybourne’s behalf. Lady Sarah was a diamond of the first water. Sweet, innocent, amenable, possessed of a gentle temperament, lively conversation, a singing voice that could rival the angels, and a formidable talent for the pianoforte. The negotiations, which Meredith had handled between Lady Sarah’s father, the Duke of Hedington, and Lord Greybourne’s father, the Earl of Ravensly, had proven quite delicate and tricky, even for a matchmaker of her considerable experience. What with the scandal that had ensued three years ago when Lord Greybourne had not returned to England from roaming the wilds of foreign locales to honor the marriage agreement his father had entered into on his behalf, coupled with the fact that he’d incomprehensibly walked away from the comforts of Society to live in uncivilized conditions where heathen traits abounded in order to study artifacts, only Lord Greybourne’s title and family connections kept him from being hopelessly unmarriageable. Indeed, it had taken an enormous amount of time, flattery, and diplomacy on Meredith’s part to convince the duke that Lord Greybourne was the perfect match for Lady Sarah-a task made all the more difficult considering the hordes of eligible titled, and unmarked-by-scandal, young men buzzing around her.

But convince Lord Hedington she did. A sigh of immense satisfaction eased past Meredith’s lips, and she was hard-pressed not to twist about and physically pat herself on the back. Thanks to her-if she might say so herself- inspired efforts, the most anticipated wedding of the Season would take place in two days at St. Paul’s Cathedral. A wedding so grand, a marriage so brilliant, so talked-about, that Meredith’s reputation as the foremost matchmaker in England was assured.

Ever since the betrothal announcement two months past, anxious mamas were courting her attention, inviting her to tea and their musicales and soirees, asking her to whom their darling daughters would most be suited. And which eligible bachelors were serious about choosing a bride this Season.

As she had so many times over the past few months, Meredith again found herself wondering why a man born into the upper echelons of Society, the heir to an earldom, a man who would never have to spend his life doing anything save seek pleasure, would spend a decade living in rustic conditions, digging up artifacts belonging to dead people. Everything practical in Meredith revolted at the very thought. Clearly Lord Greybourne harbored some very unusual beliefs and tendencies, and, she feared, his manners would most certainly need some dusting off. Even his father had hinted that his son might require a bit of “polishing.”

Even so, she did not doubt that she could shine him up enough to make a grand showing at the wedding. After all, her reputation, her livelihood depended upon the success of this wedding. She could only hope that after the ceremony he would prove to be an affable and kind husband. Because, based on the enormous gilt-framed painting of him hanging in his father’s drawing room, Lord Greybourne had not been blessed with a bounty of physical attractions.