The Marriage Campaign by Susannah
Carleton
Prologue
27 December 1812
He fled for the border. Like a thief in the night,
or a fox pursued by a tenacious pack of hounds, he raced along the back
roads of Gloucestershire through the deepening dusk, hoping to elude his
pursuers.
No one chasing him would expect him to make a
run for it tonight. Or any night, for that matter. Yet here he was, skulking
in the shadows like some highwayman of yore, hoping that no one would
see him.
With the collar of his greatcoat pulled high,
the brim of his hat tugged low over his brow, and a muffler protecting
his ears and the lower part of his face from the biting cold, he looked
more like a knight of the road than a leader of the ton. No travelers
need fear being robbed of their money and jewels, however; his mission was
quite different.
This was not how Robert had expected to spend
the holidays. But death has a way of destroying even the best-laid plans.
A fortnight ago he'd been in London, searching
the shops on Oxford and Bond Streets for Christmas gifts for his father
and his great-aunt Lavinia. His father had been in the country, riding a
new gelding in the squire's hunt. No one knew for certain what happened at
the second fence, but horse and rider had parted company going over it. The
horse had broken a leg; the marquess, his neck.
Now Robert was the marquess---and the most persecuted
man in Gloucestershire.
The marriage-minded misses and matchmaking mamas
had made his life a misery. He'd been fawned over, flirted with, and fondled---and
that was just in church on Christmas Eve! There had been more lady callers
at Elston Abbey in the past ten days than in the last decade. Young ladies
who never misstepped on the dance floor had fallen down the front stairs
and injured their ankles. Perfectly serviceable carriages had broken down
outside the gates. He'd borne all that with false smiles---and gritted
teeth.
But today, while escorting his great-aunt to her
room after tea, he'd caught Squire Dinwoody's platter-faced daughter sneaking
into his bedchamber. Tonight Robert was fleeing to his most remote property
to avoid being compromised into marriage by some conniving chit more interested
in his title and fortune than in him. When the time came, he would choose
his bride.
Reaching the main road, he turned north and set
his horse to a gallop. Yet even at that pace, he couldn't outrun his thoughts.
According to the codicil in his father's will,
the time had arrived. Robert had a year in which to wed, and his choice
was limited to the ladies his parent had listed. Of the twenty, fourteen
were still unwed, but three were in the schoolroom. He knew four of the
remaining eleven---and thought it highly unlikely he'd find wedded bliss
with any of them.
Seven unknown women from which to choose a bride.
Who would believe that Robert Edmond Alexander Symington, Marquess of
Elston, one of the most eligible bachelors in the realm, would find himself
in such straits?
From The Marriage Campaign by Susannah Carleton, Signet, February
2003, ISBN 0-451-20802-1.
Copyright © 2003 by Susan A. Lantz.
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