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suitor scratched from the proverbial list. And by the tightness of her aunt’s mouth—a once more displeased Aunt Agatha.
    She fought back a sigh.
    “Hermione Rogers, if you continue this way, you’ll remain unwed, and you require a husband more than any of the other ladies here.”
    That certainly didn’t seem like something her aunt could speak of in such absolute terms. Oh, it was most likely there were no other scandalized, impoverished families present, at least to the extent her family had managed to bungle it up.
    Still, her aunt surely could appreciate that, though Hermione didn’t expect one of those dashing, sonnet-writing gentlemen, she still aspired for at least polite …and certainly not a cruel one. “He called into question the intelligence of all those I—”
    “I don’t care if he called into question God’s creation of the universe, you need a husband,” her aunt gritted out between tightly clenched lips.
    So, it would seem Aunt Agatha could not appreciate Hermione’s desire for, at the very least, a nice gentleman. Now she knew.
    Her aunt drew in an audible breath, more flustered than Hermione remembered. “Now, Hermione,” Aunt Agatha began, “I promised your father I would see you wed to a wealthy, respectable,” but not respectful , “nobleman. I am doing this for your mother. My sister. I intend to present those who’d be willing to have you.”
    A snort escaped Hermione, which she buried into her palm as a cough. “Pardon me.” How very hopeless her aunt made her sound.
    Only the hint of Aunt Agatha’s nearly black irises were revealed through the narrow slit of her gaze. Her aunt motioned to the seat. “I’ll return in a short while with another gentleman and this time I expect you to be perfectly polite and proper—”
    She opened her mouth.
    “Even if he insults the whole of the ballroom. Make. A. Match.” With that, her aunt stormed off, marching through the crowd with a military precision better reserved for the king’s army than a matchmaking aunt.
    With a sigh, Hermione reclaimed her seat. A determined matchmaker was what her aunt was. “All stories need a determined matchmaker,” she murmured under her breath. She picked up her pencil and wrote a handful of words onto her still partner-less dance card and then let it flutter back to her side. She studied her aunt’s forward progress through the crowd. She really was grateful to Aunt Agatha for throwing her support behind her and acting as her chaperone, but really, did she possess such a low opinion that she would—Hermione leaned forward in her seat. That she would… Her aunt…
    …now spoke to a rotund gentleman. The corpulent fellow scratched at his sage waistcoat. Oh, dear. No, her aunt wouldn’t expect her to make a match with a stranger closer to Papa’s age than Hermione’s twenty-two years. Perhaps the greying gentleman was merely a friend of Uncle Horace. The man tugged out a kerchief and dabbed the gleaming beads of sweat upon his drenched brow. With his eyes, he followed her aunt’s less than subtle point across the ballroom, through the sea of dancers.
    Right to Hermione.
    And though Hermione would never be so shallow as to determine a gentleman’s suitability by his appearance alone, she would be particular enough to avoid the suit of one older gentleman who licked his lips, leering at her like she was a glazed sugar biscuit.
    She groaned, grateful for the total lack of people around to hear the unladylike expression of annoyance.
    They started across the room.
    Bloody wonderful.

C hapter 4
    S ebastian made it a point to avoid marriage-minded misses. Following his ponderings that evening in his office, he knew at his age, it was of course inevitable that he’d have to do right by the Mallen line and secure a duchess. He would when he found the one wholly unimpressed by the title of duke. So as of now, he had little interest in a wife.
    Which was perhaps why at that precise moment, his gaze