Bath, March 1812 

“Oh my days, how well you look!” Louisa Seymour exclaimed, fluttering her fan at her very red and rather blotchy neck. It wasn’t usually that blotchy, and she wasn’t usually this emotional but, see, it was the morning of her daughter’s wedding, and the day called for a glass of champagne rather than tea.

“Mama, you have seen me in this gown before. You were there at the modiste for the fitting, remember?” Susan said, trying to keep from laughing. It was a funny sight; her mother lounging on the chaise with little regard for her modesty, all poppy-red from excitement and an excess of bubbly.

“Yes, but it’s different now! The day has finally come! I remember you were there, up on the stool with that lovely gown on, so flattering to your figure, whilst that poor Cassandra Newbury was next to you looking like a great cow. Oh, dear, there’s a girl that’s hard to match. Poor thing. Several stone heavier than she ought to be and such a freckled complexion! If her father were not a baron, she’d have no chance.”

“Mama, that was quite rude of you,” Susan said firmly, cutting off her mother before she went on another tirade about matchmaking and other ladies’ looks. “Should you like to tie the sash?”

Susan smiled gratefully at the maid who had helped her dress. The woman had tightened the stays too much, and they now pinched at her skin, but that was the way of it. It was her wedding, and she was to look her best, comfort be damned. Come to think of it, everything was uncomfortable. Her shoes were just a hint too small and pinched her toes, and the pins keeping her dark curls intact poked too sharply into her scalp whenever she turned her head. Her father had arranged for a portrait sitting after the reception, so her mother had instructed the maid to make sure neither her hair nor her flesh moved so much as an inch.

This is a culmination of everything you have waited and trained for your whole life, her mother had said the night before whilst watching the maid tie rags in her hair to curl it overnight. Susan had complained that they were wound too tight and her hair would fall out, but her mother’s nerves were quite fraying at the seams. Logic simply would not work at the moment, so Susan knew she’d have to bear it or subtly steer her in a different direction.

The maid handed the light green sash to Louisa, whose eyes softened. To match your eyes, she’d said at the modiste. The perfect finishing touch to the ivory and lace gown that so flattered her figure now. Susan held her arms up to let her mother tie the sash and fashion it into a delicate bow at the back.

“How lovely you look,” she gushed.

Susan regarded herself in the large standup mirror. She did not look bad at all—quite pretty, in fact—just wildly uncomfortable. An accurate reflection if there ever was one.

“Are you ready for the veil, Miss?” the maid asked.

Susan and her mother nodded. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see her mother’s eyes turn to glass with unshed tears.

“My sweet child. Oh, I knew this day would come, but this makes it so much more real!” And then Lady Seymour burst into tears, blowing most indelicately into her kerchief.

“Mama, it is alright. This is your business, remember? Matches and weddings. Please, do not cry,” Susan said with as much gentleness as she could muster, as she herself was on edge, and her mother’s ebbing and flowing tears did not help.

The maid handed the delicate lace veil to Lady Seymour, whose hands were trembling. For a moment, Susan feared her mother might trip and tear it, but she did no such thing. Instead, she placed the comb at the back of her daughter’s tightly, beautifully coiffed hair, fanned the light fabric out behind her, and placed the front over her face. Susan could see the waterworks beginning from behind the lace. She tried to ease the tension.

“You know, I have never understood the custom of a veil. Why must a bride’s face be covered? Would not the groom like to see her as she walks down the aisle? Unless she is very ugly, I confess I don’t see the point.”

“Hush, child!” Louisa said, gently smacking her daughter on the arm. “You are not ugly, and William will be very pleased indeed to see you. This veil is like… wrapping paper on a gift. That’s what you are—a gift to him.”

Susan did not much appreciate that analogy, as she did not believe women were property to be bought and sold. William did not treat her as such. Oh, William… with that devilish grin and twinkle in his eye. Such a spark, almost immediately. They fell in love fast and hard, and the entire ton commented on how lucky it was that they were a love match. A true love match did not happen often. Feelings of mutual affection and delightful acquaintance were indeed common, but real love? Very rare. Now that very love would unite them so they could face the world together as husband and wife.

At least, that’s what Susan hoped.

William had not contacted her in two days. The adage was that it was bad luck for the groom to see the bride before the wedding, but Susan thought that meant on the morning of the event, not days beforehand. She had not even had so much as a letter or a word from his family. Perhaps it was simply her hairpins and stays pinching her, but something didn’t feel right. Her intuition was usually correct, but sometimes she wished it wasn’t. Today she blamed it on a stomachache, a hot room, a tight corset, and a tipsy, blubbering mother who fussed over her like a hen.

“I think my stays are too tight,” she said with a wince.

“They most certainly are not!” her mother countered, indignant. “Think of all the moving you shall do today. It will loosen over the course of the day and then be perfect in time for the portrait.”

Susan took as deep a breath as the stays would allow and looked in the full-length mirror once more as her mother and the maid scurried about, fussing over her hemline. She looked very fine indeed—she wasn’t sure she felt beautiful, per se, but she doubted she’d ever look this fine again. Women were supposed to be and feel at the peak of their beauty on their wedding day… so why did she not feel so?

There was a quick, urgent-sounding knock at the door. The maid and Susan’s mother beamed at each other.

“Perhaps it’s William; come to peek at his bride,” Louisa said with a giggle. The maid was equally blushed and giggly.

Susan turned from the mirror and faced the door, putting on her most sweet and pleasing expression. But instead of William, it was her father. Mr. Seymour looked very grave indeed, and Susan’s heart began to sink.

Mr. Seymour was not a grave-looking man by nature. Serious, yes, but not that serious. And he certainly could have quite the temper if provoked.

“Mr. Seymour, whatever is the matter? Why are you not joyous for your daughter?” her mother asked.

“I am afraid there is little cause for joy this morning,” he said, his face and voice of stone.

“My dear, you cannot be serious. Come, have some champagne with us before we are off to the church,” she urged with a nervous giggle.

“Papa,” Susan implored, her voice quiet and even. “What is vexing you?”

It was then she saw the small envelope in his hand. The seal was broken even though it was addressed to her. Mr. Seymour would not invade his daughter’s privacy without cause, and she had an unpleasant inkling she already knew the cause.

He crossed the room quickly and handed her the letter. Susan frantically tore it open, her eyes scanning the words. It was a short letter, not one that should have taken her long to read, but she read it repeatedly just to make sure her eyes and brain did not deceive her.

My dearest love,

 

It is with all the regret in the world that I write to you this morning. But I cannot continue the ceremony. I cannot marry you. It is not for lack of love, which you know full well I have for you. Rather, you and I are young. It is better we both explore the world before settling down. Remember how I told you I wanted to see the Mediterranean and the Near East? I am going to do just that. I cannot be married when there is so much more of the world to see. Please do not be angry. In time, perhaps you’ll even grow to forgive me. I board a ship to France this morning, then I shall begin the Grand Tour. I hope you can understand. I do love you.

 

Evermore,

William Shelley

Susan was stunned into silence for the longest time. Her mind had worked itself into such a jumble that she could not make sense of her thoughts. Without meaning to, her eyes filled with hot tears, and her bottom lip began to quiver. Sensing a proper meltdown, Louisa placed a loving hand on her daughter’s arm.

“Susan? What is it?”

She finally looked up but neither at her mother nor her father, for she could not bear to look anyone in the eye.

“He’s not going to marry me,” she whispered.

Those words sapped all feeling out of the room. It was painfully silent for a few seconds until Susan crumpled to the floor and burst into tears. And then the room was a flurry of activity. Louisa and the maid fretted over Susan while her father paced angrily back and forth, muttering to himself about responsibility and the “cheek of the boy.”

Susan was wild and frantic, crying and coughing, feeling smothered by the women trying to help her. She tore at her veil and threw it aside, then pulled all the pins out of her hair and threw those aside, too.

“How c-could heee!” she sobbed, sitting up and gasping. “What did–what did I d-do wrong?”

“You did nothing wrong, my dear,” Louisa said, holding her daughter’s face in her hands.

“Of course, she didn’t do any wrong! The cheek of that… boy, the nerve of that boy!” her father spat as if the word itself was venomous, “the insolence, the disrespect!”

“It is alright, Susan. We shall fix this. We shall find him and make it right,” Lady Seymour said, her voice suddenly much more authoritative. Gone was the quivering voice that had accompanied the happy tears just moments ago. Everyone else was losing their heads, so someone had to keep theirs on.

“You can’t find him!” Susan cried. “He’s gone. He’s probably s-sailed away already.”

“I shall hire a man. Have him followed and brought straight back here to answer for his selfish behavior,” Mr. Seymour declared.

“It is no use, Papa. You know William. He will not come back,” Susan managed between sobs.

“You will recover, Susan. Everything will be alright,” her mother assured, holding Susan to her chest and smoothing her hair.

Susan shook her head. Her face felt hot and sticky, and she could barely breathe. She would collapse if she were standing; for she was seeing double, and the room was spinning.

“I’m a matchmaker’s daughter,” she continued through her sobs. “It was supposed to be easy! And now everyone is going to laugh, and I am going to be a spinster!”

“Let them laugh. Let them gossip,” her mother said. “But that only shows how small-minded they are. And with any luck, it will reflect poorly on him rather than you. It is in deplorable taste for a groom to leave a bride at the altar.”

Susan’s sobs renewed with vigor. “We didn’t make it to the altar. We didn’t even make it to the church!”

“You’ll be alright, my dear. You are a bright young beautiful girl of good breeding. You shall snap someone else up in no time.”

Susan’s ears burned at that. She knew her mother was just trying to help, but that was the last thing she wanted to hear. “I don’t want anyone else. I want William, and I want him to want me!”

She’d heard stories of women being left at the altar for various reasons, but she never imagined she’d be one of them. She, the daughter of the most successful matchmaker in all England, being left at the altar was perhaps the social embarrassment of the century. It threatened to shake the foundations of the Season. If she was not guaranteed a match, was anyone else? The cynicism began to set in her mind. It had taken root upon the arrival of William’s nasty letter but now was fast spreading. He had claimed he loved her but was that true? Could she trust anything he said? If he really loved her, wouldn’t he want to be with her no matter the circumstances? And if he really loved her, wouldn’t he want to travel with her? Married couples traveling together was not unheard of, and they had spent countless hours looking at the atlas in the study, planning future voyages.

And then the note. No wonder he hadn’t spoken to her in two days—he must have been preparing to leave.

“A true man would have the decency to call it off long before and in the flesh!” her father raged.

Susan agreed in her mind, still crying and unable to verbalize. She had seen enough matches, enough marriages, and enough looks of adoration, affection, and love all her life. It was all she’d wanted; to love and be loved in return.

That’s all the Season was. The Marriage Mart. Women preening like pigeons and men inspecting them like cattle or competing for baseless affections like prizes to be won at a fair. Susan understood it now, the entire matchmaking business. It was a sham. Marriage was purely transactional, a contract to be fulfilled when the woman produced a viable heir. That was all. How blind she had been, how stupid! She berated herself and continued her crying, angry at herself, at William, and the world for letting her fall into this trap.

When her cries subsided, she sat up and dabbed her under eyes with her mother’s handkerchief. Love was foolish, and she would never fall into it again.

Chapter One

London, November 1815

Benjamin Forbes was convinced there was not enough Madeira in the world to help him at that moment. The East India Company could hand him their entire inventory, and he still wouldn’t find the amount adequate. He’d have to switch to gin after that—the horror. He picked up his glass by the rim and held it to the light, watching the dark red liquid swirl around. He was only catching snippets of the conversations around him, varying in volume and tone:

“…Whigs’ve made a right mess of things…” “The missus won’t allow port in the house anymore…” “…not ready for the legion of mothers…” “so I show her the bag and (the man whistled) never seen a woman lift her skirts so fast!”

That last line was met with raucous laughter from his table, distracting Benjamin from his inspection of the glass.

“Ben, what’s the matter? You look like you’ve lost a bet. You haven’t, have you? We’ve talked about this,” Cillian said with a pointed yet mischievous look.

The other men at the table laughed again. Cillian was good at that—amusing others.

“No, no lost bets. I never lose, you know,” Benjamin quipped, plastering a smile back on his face.

“You look upset with the wine. I’ve never seen you turn down a drink of any kind,” said Albert, another friend at the table.

“Surely you have a better story than Albert’s,” Cillian said, elbowing the aforementioned gentleman in the ribs. “You also can’t turn down a woman.”

“I’m afraid those days are likely behind me,” Benjamin said with the most pathetic, crestfallen demeanor.

“Has some overbearing mama snapped you up for her daughter already?” Albert asked incredulously.

“They might as well have,” Benjamin answered dryly. “My mother and father wish me to find a wife. Apparently, if my rakish behavior continues, there will be no heir to carry on the Forbes name or Pembroke dukedom for that matter.”

“Well, they’ve got it wrong. Surely you have several heirs by now,” Cillian said, bursting into laughter with Albert.

Benjamin laughed but rolled his eyes nonetheless. “They would prefer a legitimate one, in the confines of wedlock, to a lady they deem appropriate.”

“Marriage might not be so bad,” Albert said. “You wed her, bed her, she has a son, then you go back to your old ways.”

“It would take a miracle to make Benjamin marry. Unless there was a lady of superb quality whom he could not resist, I do not see you complying with your parents’ wishes,” Cillian said solemnly.

“What sort of woman would suit our Benny boy, then, hmm?” Albert asked. “Let’s build one for him. Firstly, she must have an ample bosom.”

They all laughed at that.

“But not too ample, you know—he wants a lady, not a dairy maid,” Cillian teased.

“Fine ladies can have ample bosoms as long as they comport themselves well!” Albert protested.

“Well, when we fashion you a lady, we’ll make sure to include that on the list,” Cillian said to Albert.

“Would she be dark or fair?” Albert continued.

“I say fair, but if she were not alabaster, it would not be a crime,” Cillian said. “You know,” he continued, turning back to Benjamin, “I can see you with a redhead. A fiery little thing with a fearsome temper.”

“It would be like taming a lion,” said Albert.

“Only a pretty one,” Cillian reassured.

“It is of no use, gentlemen,” Benjamin finally interrupted their construction of the perfect woman. “I shall have no say in the matter. My mother…” he sighed dramatically and took a generous swig of his wine. “Has enlisted the aid of a matchmaking service.”

His words shocked the table into silence for a moment. Albert was clearly trying not to laugh, but Cillian looked a bit more curious.

“A matchmaker could find you the ideal woman,” Cillian finally said.

“Is it not embarrassing? The idea that I cannot find a wife on my own?” Benjamin snapped.

Cillian held up his hands in mock defense.

“My mother is actually thinking of it for me,” Albert said miserably, looking down into his now-empty cup.

“Who is the matchmaker?” Cillian asked.

“You cannot be serious in asking me that,” Benjamin said curtly.

“Some of them have better reputations than others,” Cillian said.

“Oh, and you would be the expert?”

“Yes!” Cillian maintained. “My sister used a matchmaker, and she’s happy as can be with her husband.”

Benjamin dug the small card out of his waistcoat pocket. On a cream-colored background with light pink script, read “The Eros Agency,” and underneath that, two names: Louisa and Susan Seymour, with an address.

Cillian took the card and studied it for a moment. Albert looked over as well, his curiosity piqued.

“This is the agency my sister used,” he said.

“Indeed, I’ve heard of this as well,” Albert murmured.

“How am I so uninformed?” Benjamin asked, snatching the card back from Cillian and stuffing it back in his waistcoat pocket indignantly.

“A great deal of the ladies of the ton make use of their services,” Cillian said, sitting back proudly in his chair.

“Because introducing each other in a ballroom is too much work?” Benjamin said derisively.

“The matchmaker is the go-between for families not previously connected,” Cillian said matter-of-factly. “I can explain it to you if you’d like.”

Benjamin waved his hand in consent for Cillian to proceed.

“So, the parent or guardian of the person seeking a match speaks with the agency, much like an interview. They talk about their likes and dislikes, what they are looking for in a match, what they have to offer, be it financial or character-related, and the matchmaker adds you to a list. Then they go through that list and compare the men and women to see who is most compatible. Then, they set up a meeting. Sometimes it is direct, and sometimes the matchmaker makes it seem as though the meeting was natural. Then you begin courting, and voilà, marriage.”

Benjamin listened, secretly fascinated by this idea, but he decided to remain outwardly unimpressed.

“So it is a shopping list. An elaborate one. And an eligible lady chooses you as if she is choosing a button in the haberdashery,” he said.

“Well, you also have the option to choose a lady if you find you like one. The street goes both ways,” Cillian offered. “And it is a bit more work than choosing a button in the haberdashery.”

“Have you ever been to the haberdashery with your sister? Choosing a button can be tiresome,” Albert said. Cillian elbowed him sharply.

“You ought not to be so gloomy about it. My sister and her husband are quite happy together. As I’m sure many couples are. All those marriages you see in the papers, I guarantee you half of them were orchestrated by a matchmaker,” Cillian said emphatically.

“So what you’re telling me is that nothing is real. Everything is part of the carefully crafted, precious little image the ton wants,” Benjamin said ruefully.

“Some people just need a little push in the right direction,” Cillian said, sipping his drink.

“If anything else, I’ve heard the matchmaker’s daughter is quite pretty. Hot-tempered but pretty,” Albert offered.

“Is that not motivation enough?” Cillian asked with a laugh.

Benjamin hated to admit it to himself, but the idea of not having to do any work to find a suitable partner was tempting indeed. He did have a reputation as a rake and a flirt, but shouldn’t that work in his favor rather than against it? He hated the idea that he would be so incompetent in finding a wife that he had to hire a matchmaker. But then again… if it meant that overbearing mamas would stop shoving their exhausted, hapless daughters at him, maybe it was worth a try. It wasn’t as though he was lacking in funds. Perhaps with some persuasion, he could have the matchmaker only send him the creme de la creme or be on a similar list. In his experience, the best of the best were always behind a paywall.

“No one’s good enough for our Benny boy, anyway,” Albert said dramatically.

Benjamin rolled his eyes again. He was sure that if he rolled them anymore this evening, they’d roll back into his head permanently.

“Enough of this. Let’s have fun, un-orchestrated by the ton,” he said and finally downed the Madeira he’d been nursing.

Albert signaled for some attractive ladies of the night, and they flounced over with all their feminine wiles.

“Let’s have a dance, shall we gentlemen?” said the one who’d settled on Benjamin’s lap, ironically, a buxom redhead. “I’m Liz-Marie,” she continued, placing her hands on his shoulders.

Benjamin chuckled. “You should’ve saved yourself the introduction, love. It’s likely I won’t remember come morning.”

Cillian and Albert guffawed, but the woman was offended. She straightened up and shoved him hard against the chair as she left, scoffing at so-called gentlemen.

“So, no redheads for you, then?” Albert called as another woman pulled him toward the cleared space for dancing, the musicians beginning a jaunty tune.

“I find the Spanish variety a little more intriguing,” Benjamin called back over the din, raising the bottle of Madeira as a gesture.

“Suit yourself!” Yelled Cillian, who looked soon to be preoccupied with a curvy brunette in a sickeningly yellow gown.

And suit himself, he did, with another glass of wine, crafting the perfect woman in his mind.