London
April, 1816
April, 1816
“Miss Harrington seems pliable enough,” Camila Sutton said.
Major Braedon Sinclair looked at his matchmaker in bored amusement. Seems pliable enough? He wasn’t after pliable—unless she meant physically supple and willing to learn a great many erotic positions. In which case Braedon would seriously consider the woman.
However, while Camila held a superior and quite discreet reputation, in the weeks since he’d hired her, none of her schemes had come to fruition. She acknowledged his wryness with a slight shrug and a put-upon sigh.
“Your standards,” she said dryly, “aren’t ones I can shout to the ton.”
No. No they weren’t. But that didn’t stop Braedon from searching. He needed a wife. Wanted was probably more apt. He wanted a woman, a wife, not only for his bed, though definitely for that, but in his household to lend it an air of respectability. And to put an end to any rumors or questions that might spring up due to his living arrangements.
Thus far it had not been an easy search.
Tonight he’d forced himself to go to Lord Bartholomew’s ball, the widowed matchmaker Camila in tow, with her promise of securing an introduction to at least one or two suitable maidens. But now, as he looked at the sea of women, he wasn’t quite as amused with the husband-hunting season as he thought he’d be.
The girls Camila recommended were no more than receding shadows. Each one Camila introduced him to possessed about as much personality as a lump of coal. Each vied for one of the many eligible bachelors of the season. But they all did so with as much behind-the-chaperone flirting as their prim upbringing, or their large dowry, allowed.
Braedon wondered if a widow, a woman with more experience both in society and in the bedroom, might be better. At least, or so he hoped, a widow wouldn’t prattle on about the latest fashions, but rather, would be able to hold a decent conversation.
Apparently, he had high hopes.
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