London, May 1817

The conspiratorial delight glinting in his best friend’s expression was enough to make Adrian Sinclair, Duke of Wakefield, consider leaping from the nearest window—or at the very least, feign a headache. But since they sat upstairs in the Yellow Drawing Room of Apsley House, he refrained, as he did enjoy using his lower limbs.

He supposed most dukes faced danger on the battlefield or in Parliament. His, apparently, came in the form of tea trays and matchmaking duchesses. He’d survived a duel once, yet Catherine Wellesley, Duchess of Wellington's smile still managed to look far deadlier.

Sunlight spilled through tall, south-facing windows, warming the lemon-colored walls and catching on gilt-framed landscapes. A polished tea service gleamed on the low table before them, surrounded by damask-covered armchairs that suggested comfort—though he suspected their elegance outweighed their practicality.

“Catherine.” He drawled his best friend’s name, tilting his head as he studied her with a look that was equal parts caution and dry curiosity. “You’re wearing that expression again. What scheme are you plotting this time?”

She merely smiled, her eyes gleaming with mischief beneath a carefully composed facade. “You know me too well. But rest assured, this isn’t about me. It’s about you.” She set down her teacup with a soft clink, folding her hands in her lap as if sealing his fate. “I believe I’ve found you a wife.”

He leaned back, his gaze sharpening despite the groan threatening to escape. Beside him, her husband—Arthur, the celebrated Duke of Wellington—turned a page of his newspaper with theatrical care. 

From Adrian’s angle, the headline read: Notorious Art Thief Spotted in London. He would’ve preferred chasing criminals through alleyways to being cornered by Catherine’s latest matchmaking scheme. From behind the rustling fold, a single, fleeting glance above the edge suggested Arthur was far from uninvolved.

“The art thief is still loose?” Adrian asked, seizing the first diversion that came to mind. “I thought he’d fled to the Continent.”

Arthur lowered his paper enough to meet his gaze. “Hmm, yes. Word at White’s is that he sold a forgery to some Italian syndicate and fled before they discovered the exchange.”

Catherine set her teacup down with a decisive click. “Now, now, gentlemen. We will not be distracted by mystery and scandal. Romance is afoot.”

The faintest of snorts sounded as her husband lifted the newspaper once more—an entire commentary disguised as a cough. Adrian had long suspected the hero of Waterloo enjoyed watching his wife make people squirm more than any victory parade.

With a slow exhale, Adrian arched a brow and settled deeper into his chair, the afternoon sunlight glinting off his cravat pin. “Not this again,” he murmured, his tone laced with feigned indifference. “Catherine, you’ve introduced more prospective wives before me than I care to recall, and yet—miraculously—I remain unattached and perfectly content.”

He’d faced cannon fire with steadier nerves than he did Catherine’s determined gaze. There was no winning against a strategist who planned campaigns while pouring tea.

“You are content,” she conceded, her words softening, “but are you happy?” Her hand drifted to the gold band on her finger, a quiet reminder of the love she had found. “You deserve that, Adrian. At almost seven-and-thirty, you deserve someone to share your life with.”

He followed the motion, his expression unreadable. Across from him, Arthur lowered his paper just enough to glance over, a flicker of unspoken understanding passing between them before he resumed reading.

“You are fully aware,” Catherine continued, a playful sigh coloring her tone, “it’s hardly a mystery why you remain unattached. You dismiss every woman I introduce, no matter how well-suited she is. And you’ve avoided the entire Season—again. Some people still believe your father holds the title, simply because you refuse to make an appearance in town.”

Adrian’s lips twitched in a faint smirk, but he remained silent.

“I’m quite serious,” she pressed, leaning forward. “While London brimmed with balls, soirées, and garden parties, you were conveniently occupied with estate matters in the countryside. If you have no intention of marrying, then say so outright—but do not pretend it is a lack of opportunity keeping you unwed.”

“You know I want an heir,” Adrian said, his delivery light, though the edge beneath it was unmistakable. “I assure you, Catherine, I am hardly starved for opportunities. My letters this year were practically drowning in invitations from every ambitious hostess in London.”

Everyone wanted a piece of the Duke of Wakefield. Land, title, coin. He often wondered if anyone would ever want the man beneath the autocratic façade.

He took a sip of his black tea before continuing. “You’re fully aware I have little patience for the theatrics of the Season—the false smiles, the empty chatter about the weather or the latest fashions. And I did attend Yarmouth’s garden party—where I was pursued by marriage-minded mamas like a fox at hunt.”

The memory alone made him grimace. “It all feels as though I’m a prized bull being displayed for auction.”

“You attended Yarmouth’s garden party because he was your old boss,” Catherine countered, her tone laced with affectionate determination. “Being chased by a few determined mothers doesn’t count as making an effort. Perhaps you wouldn’t find it so tiresome if you stopped avoiding anyone with genuine interest. Not every conversation is meaningless, Adrian. Not all women are insipid.”

A low chuckle stirred in his chest. “Oh, I’ve no doubt exceptions exist. But they’re buried beneath endless talk of embroidery patterns and the state of the rain. And even then, none have shown interest in me—only in the benefits.” He paused, glancing briefly between Catherine and Arthur. “What you two have… that’s what I want. And I’m willing to wait until the right woman comes along.”

She arched a brow. “Lady Donna was interested in you. I truly believed there would be an announcement.”

“Her ladyship played her part well,” Adrian conceded. “I won’t deny I was affected. On paper, she was a perfect match—I pursued her in earnest, and by all accounts, the courtship should have led to a proposal.” 

He let out a slow breath, the memory roughening the edges of his words. “In fact, it nearly did. I had the ring, the speech—everything. But in the end, she let me go. Quietly. Graciously. That was the worst part—how kind she was about it. Lord Cameron, it seemed, had already claimed her heart.”

She opened her mouth to object, but he lifted a hand to forestall her. “I’ve seen them many times since their wedding. She positively glows in his presence. Whatever I might have offered, I would never have made her as happy as Cameron has.”

A thoughtful silence hung between them before she sighed. “Adrian, you can’t expect a future wife to simply appear at your doorstep.” Her cadence softened as she turned slightly toward her husband. “Even Arthur, for all his confidence, braved the Season when he knew what—or rather, who he wanted.”

Arthur grunted from behind his newspaper, clearly unwilling to be drawn into the fray, though the subtle shift in his posture hinted at quiet amusement.

“While you were purposely avoiding London—and you were,” Catherine added pointedly, daring him to contradict her. He wisely remained silent. “I became acquainted with a few ladies who meet all your criteria. Each has already made her debut, and like you, one of them expected a proposal—only for the gentleman in question, who shall remain unnamed, to fall in love with someone else.”

Adrian exhaled, long-suffering. “I don’t recall anyone asking my opinion on the matter,” he quipped, casting Arthur a look of mock exasperation before turning back to Catherine. “But you’re as persistent as ever, so I’ll indulge the conversation. What is it you propose, then? If I’m to be trapped in this house for weeks, shall I expect a spectacle of eligible ladies through the drawing room until I surrender?”

“Not quite,” she said, triumph flashing across her face. “But close.”

He pinched the bridge of his nose, already bracing for the absurdity to come. His bond with Catherine was one of life’s few constants—formed in the nurseries of their childhood homes and tempered by years of shared confidences.

Their parents, once eager to strengthen the ties between their families, had envisioned a future match between them. But their hearts had taken different paths. Arthur Wellesley had claimed Catherine’s—wholly and without question—and Adrian had stood witness to their love with a loyalty that ran deeper than any short-lived notion of romance.

He was quite relieved when their supposed future faded into memory. Catherine was many things—sharp, relentless, and impossible to intimidate—but to him, she was family. The sister he never had. He would not hesitate and come running if she called, but they had long agreed they would be nothing more than the closest of friends.

Her voice cut through his thoughts, imbued with purpose. “I’m planning a house party. A small gathering, not a lavish affair.” She reached for her teacup with unhurried grace, the pause deliberate. “I’ve invited a few eligible ladies for the week—three women even you can’t deny would suit you perfectly.”

Adrian groaned, dragging a palm down his face. “Catherine, that sounds like absolute torture.”

“And you are impossible,” she countered with a grin. “But since you’re staying here while your Grosvenor Square property is under renovation—and refuse to attend the remaining events of the Season because you’ve declared balls a form of public torture—I’d be remiss if I let this opportunity pass. Besides, if I don’t keep you occupied, your team of builders will continue to quit—and you’ll be stuck here indefinitely.”

He scoffed, irritation edging into his tone. “It’s hardly my fault the master builder keeps hiring incompetents. Honestly, how many men does it take to rebuild a brick wall?” He raked a hand through his hair, still baffled by the sheer number of blunders that had turned a straightforward renovation into an ordeal. It should have ended with only a modest improvement: the addition of a water closet to his main suite.

Two master builders and a dozen masons—each with a new foreman—had come and gone before the blasted walls were finally repaired, but at a cost. The botched work order had compromised the structural integrity of the rear foundation, and now Adrian faced an entirely different battle: stabilizing the instability before it worsened.

He exhaled sharply, tapping his fingers against the arm of his chair. “These men are being paid to improve the property, yet every time I step inside, another disaster awaits. At this rate, I may as well take over and finish the damn thing myself.”

Catherine chuckled, satisfaction woven through her expression. “Oh, Adrian, you thrive on finding faults just so you can lecture someone into submission.” She shook her head slightly, her voice laced with feigned exasperation. “If I hadn’t grown up with you, I might believe the rumors—that you are a ruthless sadist who spends his time seducing blushing brides.” The teasing gave way to a quieter note, more thoughtful now. “But no matter how much you busy yourself with renovations and business, I see what you’re really doing—avoiding the possibility of love.”

“Avoiding love?” Adrian echoed, one brow lifting in mock incredulity. “You make it sound as if I’ve barricaded myself in the library.”

“Haven’t you?” she retorted, her tone light but unmistakably teasing. “But fear not. I will not parade an army of featherbrained angels in white muslin before you. A select group, handpicked for their charm, suitability, and—above all—their ability to tolerate you as a husband. You might even enjoy yourself.”

“Highly unlikely,” he muttered, though the twitch at the corner of his mouth betrayed his bemusement.

Arthur, who had thus far remained absorbed in his reading, lowered it just enough to remark dryly, “Perhaps we should invite Egromont and a few of our male acquaintances as well. If Adrian must endure an endless list of introductions, it’s only fair he has some allies in the fray.” He paused, his lips curving in a rare display of amusement. “And besides, it might keep him from fleeing to White’s at the first mention of lace.”

Lord Egromont, Pierce Wyndham, had grown up alongside Catherine and Adrian, the three of them thick as thieves. In recent years, their correspondence had thinned, scattered by the demands of duty and distance. But whenever they met again, conversation flowed with effortless familiarity, as if no time had passed at all.

Laughter rippled through the room, and despite himself, he chuckled. With a resigned sigh, he set his cup aside. “Fine. But don’t expect miracles. I’ve no intention of composing sonnets or waltzing until dawn.”

Catherine clapped her hands, eyes alight with triumph. “Oh, Adrian, I promise you, this will be worth it. It would be lovely for Pierce to join—we write often, but it’s been over a year since I previously saw him.”

Tilting his head, Adrian added, “Same here. During my last visit to Petworth, I was surprised by how much his sister had grown.”

“Yes, he recounts how bossy Evelyn has become,” Catherine agreed. “I’ll extend the invitation—though he might think I’m trying to play matchmaker with him.”

He fixed her with a skeptical gaze, one brow arching. “Let’s hope your guest list doesn’t consist entirely of bluestockings and gossips. When does this grand affair begin?”

Catherine’s smile turned positively wicked. “In three days.”

Adrian exhaled slowly, sinking deeper into the chair as if it could swallow him whole, then tipped his head back and cast a look heavenward—pleading silently with whatever god would deliver him from the duchess’s schemes. 

If fortune favored him, he would endure the house party, brave the sea of eager young women, outmaneuver their scheming mamas, and emerge unscathed—most importantly, unattached.