This week’s excerpt is from The Husband Gamble, a short novella I am writing for The Wedding Wager.

The Earl of Hythe was already regretting his agreement to attend the party. The room he had been given was perfectly adequate. His valet Pritchard, who had been with him for years, had been busy while Hythe was in his bath. Pritchard knew exactly how Hythe likes things. He had organised the dressing room and the bedside table, and had moved the chairs in the seating area so that they were precisely aligned with the edge of the hearth, with the little table equidistant between the two and on the same ruler-straight line.

After he was dressed again, Hythe set his travelling desk on the desk provided, and checked the desk drawers. Lady Osbourne had provided quality paper and ink. The stack of paper needed to be tidied, as did the rest of the drawer contents. That task finished, Hythe had no further excuse for lingering in his room, getting in Pritchard’s way. Like it or not, he needed to go below and meet the other guests.

He blamed his sister Sophia, entirely. On second thoughts, he had opened himself to the attack. If he had never grumbled to her about the difficulty of finding a wife one could respect and even, perhaps, befriend, she would never have suggested that he put himself in the hands of the acclaimed matchmaker. One who had found matches, furthermore, for people whom Society had judged unmarriageable.

Even so, Hythe would never have agreed if the marriage of his sister Felicity had not left his townhouse appallingly empty. Felicity had followed him from one diplomatic post into another, keeping house for him. His servants were perfectly competent, but they would be horrified to be asked to sit down for a chat over breakfast or of an evening.

And, of course, no servant could be his hostess or be at his side during the social occasions that were so much part of his work.

“Excuse me, my lord,” Pritchard said.

Hythe stepped out of his way, and Pritchard, carrying Hythe’s dinner jacket as if it was the crown jewels, proceeded to lay the garment on the bed and return to the dressing room for the next item. “Dinner is at seven, my lord, with gathering in the drawing room from six thirty.”

It was Pritchard’s way of saying “You have at least two hours before dressing for dinner, so please go away so I can ensure that anything you might choose to wear has been inspected and, if necessary, restored to a standard suitable for the Earl of Hythe.”

Hythe repressed a sigh and bowed to the inevitable, though he only went as far as the passage, where he stood for a moment, his eyes shut, bracing himself to meet all those people.

It was only for a week. He could resist any plots by Lady Osbourne or her protégés for one week. One of them might be the one for you. He rejected the errant thought. Everyone knew that Lady Osbourne had wagered with her cousin that she could find matches for the most awkward, difficult and challenging of wallflowers and hoydens and the most unprepossessing of grooms.

Hythe knew that he had little to recommend him beyond his title and his wealth. Ladies seem to prefer a man of address, who could flatter them with elegant compliments and talk for hours about frivolous matters that bored Hythe witless. Someone at ease meeting strangers and comfortable in crowds of people.

For Hythe, social occasions were an ordeal. He could manage. He had memorised a hundred different meaningless but polite responses, and practiced them in front of a mirror. He had learned which ones to trot out on which occasion.

It was not so bad if he could find a meaningful conversation in which to immerse himself, but the ladies of Society and many of the men had no interest in topics that mattered. Hythe had discovered the trick of finding a quiet corner where he could take a few deep breathes before pasting on a smile and getting back to work.

The right wife would have the skills he lacked, as his sisters did. They were both brilliant political and diplomatic hostesses, and had been happy to give their brother the benefit of their skills. Until they married. Without them, life in Society was even more exhausting than before.

He had not been able to find what he needed as a man. What his title required made it even more difficult.  The Earl of Hythe needed a countess who could burnish the reputation of the earldom and the family. Money was irrelevant. Looks were secondary. Behaviour…

Even in his thoughts, he could not agree that behaviour was everything. Important, yes. Hythe was the head of the Belvoir family, and no stain had ever attached to their family name. His parents had been renowned for their good ton as well as their wealth, their generosity, and their wide circle of friends. His sisters were models of propriety. Felicity, his younger sister, might at times allow her vivacity to bring her to the edge of proper behaviour, but never over.

However, Hythe wanted more from marriage than a countess who could be a good hostess and who knew how to behave. Perhaps, if he had contemplated marriage a few years ago, he might have chosen one of the insipid bird brains that seem to be the primary offering on the marriage mart. And perhaps, if he had been lucky, she might have learned to be an adequate countess.

Hythe also wanted a wife. He had watched his sisters find love matches. So had several of his friends. He was not convinced that a love match was a desirable thing — such an untidy excess of emotions did not appeal to him. In any case, he had never imagined himself in love, even when his friends were falling like flies for opera dances and Society beauties. He was probably not capable of the emotion.

The other kind of love he could manage very well. He held a deep and abiding affection for both of his sisters. He was sure he could be a fond and caring husband and father. All he had to do was find a wife he could talk to. It may be setting the bar too low to say a wife who did not irritate him, but that was precisely what he told Lady Osbourne when she buttonholed him in Town after Sophia had asked her for her help.

Someone who did not irritate him. Someone who was old enough and interesting enough to know her own mind and be prepared to have opinions and defend them. Someone who liked children and would be a good mother, for Hythe would need an heir, and hoped that his son might grow up with brothers and sisters.

Someone who knew how to behave as the wife of a diplomat and a peer — that went without saying, although he said it anyway. Someone who was at ease in social situations and prepared to exercise that mastery on his behalf, though he did not put that into words, unwilling to expose his deficiencies to that extent.

He waved away Lady Osbourne’s questions about appearance. Short or tall. Fair or dark. Plump or slender. What did those matter over a lifetime? “I want someone to grow old with,” he told Lady Osbourne, “should we be so blessed.”

He couldn’t spend the rest of the day leaning against the wall outside his room. He opened his eyes even as he took a stride down the passage, only to find his arms full of a warm fragrant female. Who gasped, and pulled backwards.