by Susana Ellis
The Marriage Obligation
The Marriage Maker
Book Twelve
The Marriage Maker Goes Undercover
Susana Ellis
Scarsdale Voices
This is a Scarsdale Voices romance and is part of The Marriage Maker series written by Tarah Scott and Sue-Ellen Welfonder.
The Marriage Obligation © Copyright 2018 Barbara Andrews The Marriage Maker Goes Undercover Book Twelve
All rights reserved
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the author, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.
Cover Design: R. Jackson Designs
Editor: Casey Yager
Contents
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Author’s Note
Dedication
This story is dedicated to the members of the Maumee Valley Romance Writers Inc. who attended our September brainstorming event and were instrumental in helping me put this story together. I could not have done it without you!
Rue Allyn
Heidi Lynn Anderson
Kristina Knight
Shay Lacey
Constance Phillips
Katelynn Phillips
Jenna Rutland
Mila Winters
THANK YOU!
Chapter One
Leicester Square
London
May 1812
“You cannot force me to marry.” Cornelia planted her feet wide apart. “Papa, why now?” Her heart thudded. “George and Suzanne have married, you have grandchildren. You know that marriage for me is…ill-advised.”
Her father’s eyes softened. “You deserve happiness. Can you not see that is all we want for you?”
Happiness? Her heart twisted. Marriage…children were not to be for her. “You would have me lie to my husband, pass myself off as something I am not?”
“You are a beautiful, intelligent woman,” he replied. “There is no untruth in that.”
“You know perfectly well that is not what I am talking about, Papa. You know I cannot have children.”
“Nonsense,” he replied. “That is a notion you have concocted in your head. There is no danger in you having children.”
“Concocted? I did not concoct the fact that we do not know my father’s identity—or that he was part of a mob who murdered Maman’s family.”
Her father scowled. “Cornelia, we have been beyond patient with you. A sensible daughter would have reconciled herself to the idea long ago, if only for her mother’s sake.”
Her mother mopped tears from her eyes with an embroidered handkerchief. The one that a ten-year-old Cornelia had worked for her as a birthday present,
A knot formed in the back of Cornelia’s throat. “Maman…”
“Non!” Her pocket-sized mother threw down the handkerchief and rounded on her much larger husband. “I will not have it, Cornelius. My daughter will not be compelled to marry against her will.”
The admiral shook his head. “Our daughter, Léonie, remember?” He took his wife’s hands in his and drew her into his arms as a tear slipped down her cheek. “She is our first-born and is very much loved and cherished.” He held out an arm to Cornelia. “You know that, do you not, Daughter?”
She did know. Love had enveloped her from the day of her birth, and, blithely, she accepted her role as Papa’s favorite—even after the arrivals of her younger siblings, George and Suzanne. How she’d wished she’d been born a boy, so she could go to sea as he had at age twelve and follow him as a successful navy officer. To his credit, her father had never once expressed disappointment with any of his children, not even when George had eschewed the sea for a legal career. “The sea isn’t for everyone,” Papa had said. “It takes a certain type of man to endure the long absences from home and family.”
Most important, as a man, being born a bastard was little more than an inconvenience. As a woman, however…
She released a sigh. Her father, Admiral Hardcastle, had recently been appointed to the position of Governor General of British North America, which required a move to Canada. He wanted his wife with him—and Cornelia knew how much she wanted to go—but Léonie had stubbornly refused to leave.
“I do not understand why your mind is fixed on marriage,” Cornelia said for the umpteenth time. “I have no suitors at present. Do you truly mean for me to wed a stranger?”
Her mother wept noisily into her father’s coat.
The admiral shook his head. “Of course not. All we wish is for you to go out into the ton and make a sincere attempt to meet eligible young men. A lovely young lady such as you should have no trouble finding admirers. Why, I know of a dozen unmarried officers who would jump at the chance—”
“Oh no, dear, not a naval man,” cried her mother. “I would not wish my daughter to suffer such loneliness as I have.”
Cornelia drew a breath. An idea began to form. She smiled. “Very well, I will look for a husband.” She approached her parents. “As soon as I am married, Maman, you must join Papa in the provinces.”
Her mother threw her arms around Cornelia. “I will, I promise I will.”
Over her mother’s shoulder, Cornelia met her father’s gaze. He lifted a brow that said, I know you too well, Daughter, to be fooled by your easy acquiescence.
She would have to tread carefully if her plan were to work.
* * *
Three weeks later
Cornelia’s dance with Lord Fenchurch came to a halt, and she glanced at her mother, who rested with a few of her friends on chairs lined up against the red silken walls to her right.
Lord Fenchurch bowed. “Thank you for the honor of dancing with me, Miss Hardcastle. I daresay I have not enjoyed a dance so much in all of my life.”
“It was my pleasure, Lord Fenchurch,” lied Cornelia.
When his lordship did not take his leave, Cornelia’s hands grew clammy. If he were to formalize his intentions or, even worse, ask to take her for a drive in the park—well, she had exhausted her excuses. Word had spread that she was seeking a husband, and a staggering number of potential suitors had appeared. Many more than she could have anticipated.
Oh, she’d had beaux before. She had inherited her mother’s dark, exotic beauty and slim figure. But at five-foot-nine inches, she was taller than most women and even some men, which could be off-putting. Although she held no title, she had a respectable dowry and desirable connections—if one discounted her true parentage. Her father being a near-legendary admiral in the Royal Navy, she had danced at Almack’s and even at Carlton House with the Prince Regent. But after her third Season, when she’d curtailed her social activities in favor of charitable work at the Foundling Hospital, the flock of gentleman callers diminished significantly, to her g
reat satisfaction.
Practically on the shelf at age four-and-twenty, she had not expected to be in such demand. Of course, she had not considered that her age and maturity might be an asset to some of the older gentlemen, particularly widowers with motherless children. There were half a dozen of those, plus a greater number of younger, perfectly respectable gentlemen in the queue. Rogues and rakes dared not apply; her father discouraged them with one terrible scowl.
Thus far, however, not one of the gentlemen who approached her met the criteria she had set the day she’d agreed to seek a husband. Each was like Lord Fenchurch—respectable, unobjectionable, and unlikely to leave her for a life at sea.
“Good evening, ladies and gentleman.” A newcomer inserted himself into their group and nodded at Lord Fenchurch, who promptly excused himself and departed.
Cornelia let out a breath.
Tall and handsome, with an air of supreme confidence, the newcomer bowed and looked expectantly at her mother, who beamed with pleasure.
“Sir Stirling! How delightful to see you this evening. My husband warned—er—informed me you might stop in tonight.” She smiled at her daughter. “Cornelia, this is Sir Stirling James. Sir Stirling, this is my daughter Cornelia.”
Cornelia looked sharply at her mother, then offered him her gloved hand. “A pleasure to meet you, Sir Stirling.”
He grasped it and kissed her fingertips. “The pleasure is mine, Miss Hardcastle.”
“Sir Stirling is in the shipping business. From Scotland, I believe?”
“Indeed. Inverness, to be precise,” he said. “Have you ever been?”
“My husband and I were there on holiday once. The scenery is simply spectacular.”
“Indeed, it is.” He turned to Cornelia. “And you, Miss Hardcastle? Have you had the opportunity to visit my fair country?”
“I have not had that pleasure, sir.”
She lowered her eyes and willed him to leave. Do not ask me to dance. Do not ask to call upon me. Do not make me invent some pretext to discourage your courtship.
“Did Lady Chastity accompany you this evening, Sir Stirling?” her mother asked. “Sir Stirling is recently married, Cornelia—and he has a new daughter. Oh, say you brought them to England, Sir Stirling. We would love to see them.”
Cornelia smiled at Sir Stirling—the first genuine smile of the evening.
“Alas, Chastity decided it best to stay in Inverness with Ella,” he said.
“My felicitations, Sir Stirling,” Cornelia said. “I hope I shall have the pleasure of meeting them one day soon.” She beamed. How refreshing to have a conversation with someone who did not have ulterior motives.
He returned her smile. “I am sure you will have that opportunity. But for now, I wonder if you will take a turn about the room with me, Miss Hardcastle.”
She glanced at her mother, who nodded. “I should enjoy that, Sir Stirling.”
Anything to avoid the hordes of suitors.
He guided her away from the dance floor, toward the less crowded refreshment room, then asked, “Do I sense a hint of relief, Miss Hardcastle?”
She looked up and smiled when she saw the amusement in his eyes. “You are very perceptive, Sir Stirling.”
“Do you not enjoy social events in general, or is it this one in particular?”
She laughed. “I enjoy a good ball or rout now and then, but I am no social butterfly.”
He looked at her quizzically. “I understand you have better things to do with your time.”
She blinked. “You know of my work with the Foundling Hospital?” She couldn’t understand why her parents would have mentioned such a thing to a new acquaintance.
He took her hand and gently squeezed. “Your parents are very proud, you know.”
Pulling her hand away, she stopped in front of a potted palm. “I suppose they told you about the rest, too.”
He steadied his gaze on her. “About your promise to wed? Indeed, they did.”
Her nails bit into her palms. “Why do such a thing? This is a family matter.” She glared at him. “Who are you really?”
“I am Sir Stirling James, businessman. Some call me The Marriage Maker.”
Cornelia stepped back and nearly fell into the potted palm.
My parents contacted a matchmaker? God have mercy!
Chapter Two
Lady Elana Gallaway’s house
Devereux Lane
Two o’clock in the morning
Sir Stirling strolled into Lady Elana’s sitting room. She looked up from the book on her lap as he crossed to the divan where she sat.
“Stirling.” She extended a hand.
He kissed her fingertips, then lowered himself into the chair beside the divan. “She will do,” he said as he took a glass of brandy from the tray offered him by a footman. “She wants a husband even less than Preston wants a wife.”
Lady Elana laughed. Even in the early morning hours, she wore a shimmering moss green gown trimmed with gold ribbon. Her petite femininity served as a smokescreen—one she used in her work as The Raven, master spy of British espionage. The operative who took Lady Elana for a featherbrained woman did so at his own peril. After years of working closely with The Raven, Stirling maintained proper respect for her abilities.
“Only you would see that as an advantage, Stirling.”
He sipped his brandy and leaned back in his chair. “She has promised her parents to look for a husband—sooner than later, as the admiral is due to sail in less than a month. She’s a resourceful girl, and I would hazard a guess she is looking for a chap who won’t interfere with her life. It is a problem, though, because she is hesitant to tie herself to someone she barely knows and doesn’t respect.”
“Indeed.” Lady Elana leaned closer. “I see the way your mind is working. Young Mr. Warrington will not seriously consider any young woman with hopes for a true marriage. But one who expects him to be abroad most of the time—perfect.” Her brows furrowed. “But what if he does go abroad? Will that not defeat our purpose of keeping him safe in England?”
Stirling drew a deep breath. “You were wise to remove him from the unit after that impetuous attempt on Boney’s life that nearly cost us three of our best operatives. But he will find some other reason to go abroad, in which case the Home Office will have lost a damned good strategist.” He smiled and gave her ladyship a crisp nod. “Miss Hardcastle is just the woman to induce him to remain.”
Elana’s eyes glowed. “Excellent. Now how do we persuade our Mr. Warrington of the advantages of marriage? A pity his mother is gone. Mothers can be useful in these matters.”
After a moment of reflection, she clapped her hands. “I have it. Stirling, did you not become acquainted with the older brother at The University of Edinburgh?”
Stirling lifted a brow. “William? Aye, we played cricket together my last year. He was an underclassman.” He quirked a brow and smiled. “I shall travel to Cheshire, to the Warrington seat, and persuade the viscount that it is in his brother’s best interests to marry and settle down.” He grinned. “And offer the assistance of The Marriage Maker, of course.”
Lady Elana drained her glass. “A first-rate plan, Stirling, my dear. One might even say, a sterling one.” She chuckled as he shook his head in mock sternness. “An old pun, but an apt one,” she said. “Your abilities never fail to amaze me.”
He shrugged. “I’m not sure I would categorize it as an ability. Matchmaking simply requires that one pay attention…and requires a bit of luck. After all, if I hadn’t met Admiral Hardcastle at White’s the other evening, I might never have had the opportunity to discuss Preston with him as a possible suitor for his daughter.”
“He wasn’t offended by Warrington’s profession?”
“Quite the contrary. He knows several espionage agents who have risked their necks to save British lives, and he’s not opposed to marrying his daughter to one, provided, of course, that he treats her with the respect she deserves.”
After they finished their drinks, Sterling took her hand and kissed it. “I shall be on my way to Cheshire tomorrow.”
She smiled. “Yes, of course. There isn’t much time, and there are still too many potential snags in this plan. If anyone can save Preston from himself, you are the one, Stirling.”
He grinned. “Saving gentlemen from themselves is one of my favorite pastimes. In my experience, however, it is often the ladies who prove to be the ‘snag.’”
* * *
Warrington, Cheshire
Two weeks later
“Mr. Warrington.”
Preston Warrington had almost reached the front door when the butler’s call halted him.
Preston turned. “Yes, what do you want, Walker?”
The rotund figure of the fifty-two-year-old majordomo emerged from the dimmer shadows of the hallway, his face flushed from exertion.
“Pardon me, Mr. Warrington, but his lordship wishes a word with you on the terrace.”
A word with him? Preston had a feeling he knew what words his brother intended. The lure of his morning ride tempted him to refuse, but refusal would only prolong the inevitable. If his career as an agent to the Crown had taught him only one thing, it was that no disagreeable task could be postponed. One moment of indecision could mean the loss of a dozen lives. Of course, this disagreeable task held less national importance, but the same principle applied. He would just tell his brother no, then proceed to enjoy his ride, as planned.
Nothing was that simple, however.
William, Viscount Warrington, and his lovely blonde wife were finishing breakfast at a daintily set table overlooking the parterre garden at the rear of the house. Joanna smiled prettily at her husband, and William’s mouth curved upward in an indulgent—but satisfied—smile. The picture of domesticity, Preston noted with some longing, before reminding himself that he wasn’t suited for such a sedate life. He was a man who longed to conquer the world, discover new territories, and enjoy flirtations with exotic women. Fortunately, his older brother was well-suited for his hereditary role as holder of the title, manager of the family estate, and progenitor of heirs. Why, he already had three daughters—Preston smiled at the thought of his darling nieces—and Joanna was enceinte once again. No doubt this one would be a son.
