Rules of Engagement: The Reasons for Marriage. Stephanie Laurens

Where resides my paragon?”

      The clock ticked on. Finally, frowning direfully, Frederick flung up a hand. “Hell and the devil! There must be some suitable women about?”

      Jason met his frustration with bland resignation. “I can safely say I’ve never found one. That aside, however, I agree that, assuming there is indeed at least one woman who could fill my bill, it behoves me to hunt her out, wherever she may be. The question is, where to start?”

      With no real idea, Frederick kept mum.

      His gaze abstracted, his mind turning over his problem, Jason’s long fingers deserted his empty glass to idly play with a stack of invitations, the more conservative gilt-edged notelets vying with delicate pastel envelopes, a six-inch-high stack, awaiting his attention. Abruptly realising what he had in his hand, Jason straightened in his chair, the better to examine the ton’s offerings.

      “Morecambes, Lady Hillthorpe’s rout.” He paused to check the back of one envelope. “Sussex Devenishes. The usual lot.” One by one, the invitations dropped from his fingers on to the leather-framed blotter. “D’Arcys, Pen-brights. Lady Allington has forgiven me, I see.”

      Frederick frowned. “What did she have to forgive you for?”

      “Don’t ask. Minchinghams, Carstairs.” Abruptly, Jason halted. “Now this is one I haven’t seen in a while—the Lesters.” Laying aside the other invitations, he reached for a letter-knife.

      “Jack and Harry?”

      Unfolding the single sheet of parchment, Jason scanned the lines within and nodded. “Just so. A request for the pleasure, et cetera, et cetera, at a week-long succession of entertainments—for which one can read bacchanal—at Lester Hall.”

      “I suspect I’ve got one, too.” Frederick uncurled his elegant form from the depths of the armchair. “Thought I recognised the Lester crest but didn’t stop to open it.” Glass in hand, he picked up Jason’s glass and crossed to place both on the sideboard. Turning, he beheld an expression of consideration on His Grace of Eversleigh’s countenance.

      Jason’s gaze lifted to his face. “Do you plan to attend?”

      Frederick grimaced. “Not exactly my style. That last time was distinctly too licentious for my taste.”

      A smile of complete understanding suffused Jason’s features. “You should not let your misogyny spoil your enjoyment of life, my friend.”

      Frederick snorted. “Permit me to inform His Grace of Eversleigh that His Grace enjoys himself far too much.”

      Jason chuckled. “Perhaps you’re right. But they haven’t opened Lester Hall for some years now, have they? That last effort was at Jack’s hunting box.”

      “Old Lester’s been under the weather, so I’d heard.” Frederick dropped into his armchair. “They all thought his time had come, but Gerald was in Manton’s last week and gave me to understand the old man had pulled clear.”

      “Hmm. Seems he’s sufficiently recovered to have no objection to his sons opening his house for him.” Jason reread the brief missive, then shrugged. “Doubtful that I’d find a candidate suitable to take to wife there.”

      “Highly unlikely.” Frederick shuddered and closed his eyes. “I can still recall the peculiar scent of that woman in purple who pursued me so doggedly at their last affair.”

      Smiling, Jason made to lay aside the note. Instead, his hand halted halfway to the pile of discarded invitations, then slowly returned until the missive was once more before him. Staring at the note, he frowned.

      “What is it?”

      “The sister.” Jason’s frown deepened. “There was a sister. Younger than Jack or Harry, but, if I recall aright, older than Gerald.”

      Frederick frowned, too. “That’s right,” he eventually conceded. “Haven’t sighted her since the last time we were at Lester Hall—which must be all of six years ago. Slip of a thing, if I’m thinking of the right one. Tended to hug the shadows.”

      Jason’s brows rose. “Hardly surprising given the usual tone of entertainments at Lester Hall. I don’t believe I’ve ever met her.”

      When he made no further remark, Frederick turned to stare at him, eyes widening as he took in Jason’s pensive expression. “You aren’t thinking …?”

      “Why not?” Jason looked up. “Jack Lester’s sister might suit me very well.”

      “Jack and Harry as brothers-in-law? Good God! The Montgomerys will never be the same.”

      “The Montgomerys are liable to be only too thankful to see me wed regardless.” Jason tapped the crisp parchment with a manicured fingernail. “Aside from anything else, at least the Lester men won’t expect me to turn myself into a monk if I marry their sister.”

      Frederick shifted. “Perhaps she’s already married.”

      “Perhaps,” Jason conceded. “But somehow I think not. I rather suspect it is she who runs Lester Hall.”

      “Oh? Why so?”

      “Because,” Jason said, reaching over to drop the invitation into Frederick’s hand, “some woman penned this invitation. Not an older woman, and not a schoolgirl but yet a lady bred. And, as we know, neither Jack, Harry nor Gerald has yet been caught in parson’s mousetrap. So what other young lady would reside at Lester Hall?”

      Reluctantly, Frederick acknowledged the likely truth of his friend’s deduction. “So you plan to go down?”

      “I rather think I will,” Jason mused. “However,” he added, “I intend to consult the oracle before we commit ourselves.”

      “Oracle?” asked Frederick, then, rather more forcefully. “We?”

      “The oracle that masquerades as my aunt Agatha,” Jason replied. “She’s sure to know if the Lester chit is unwed and suitable—she knows damned near everything else in this world.” He turned to study Frederick, grey eyes glinting steel. “And as for the ‘we’, my friend, having thrust my duty upon me, you can hardly deny me your support in this, my greatest travail.”

      Frederick squirmed. “Dash it, Jason—you hardly need me to hold your hand. You’ve had more experience in successfully hunting women than any man I know.”

      “True,” declared His Grace of Eversleigh, unperturbed. “But this is different. I’ve had women aplenty—this time, I want a wife.”

      “WELL, EVERSLEIGH?” Straight as a poker, Lady Agatha Colebatch sat like an empress giving audience from the middle of her chaise. An intimidating turban of deepest purple crowned aristocratic features beset by fashionable boredom, although her beaked nose fairly quivered with curiosity. Extending one hand, she watched with impatience as her nephew strolled languidly forward to take it, bowing gracefully before her. “I assume this visit signifies that you have come to a better understanding of your responsibilities and have decided to seek a bride?”

      Jason’s brows rose haughtily. Instead of answering the abrupt query, he took advantage of his aunt’s waved offer of a seat, elegantly disposing his long limbs in a chair.

      Watching this performance through narrowed eyes, Lady Agatha possessed her soul with what patience she could. From experience she knew studying Eversleigh’s expression would yield nothing; the strong, patrician features were impassive, his light grey eyes shuttered. He was dressed for a morning about town, his tautly muscled frame displayed to advantage in a coat of Bath superfine, his long legs immaculately clad in ivory inexpressibles which disappeared into the tops of glossy tasselled Hessians.

      “As it happens, Aunt, you are right.”

      Lady Agatha inclined her turbaned head regally. “Have you any particular female in mind?”

      “I do.” Jason