The Convenient Bride Collection: 9 Romances Grow from Marriage Partnerships Formed Out of Necessity

The Honorable Robert Alexander Radclyfe observed the promenade of young women as they sauntered up the stairs of the Metropolitan Opera House, gorgeously gowned in satin and silks like strutting peahens. Diamonds glittered from tiaras and feathered aigrettes in their hair, flashed from their waists, and adorned the deep décolleté of their bodices.

It reminded him of the summer cattle fairs in England, except the females were dressed in silk and glittering jewels instead of sporting iron nose rings.

His best friend, James George Epperson, Baron DeVille, who had joined Rob for the scouting trip to America, casually tipped his head toward the shining creature swathed in clouds of pink tulle descending the staircase. “Her father made a fortune in silver mining in Colorado. She’s worth millions.”

Rob shook his head, amazed. “How the deuce do you know all this? Especially since you’re a confirmed bachelor?”

DeVille shrugged. “I read the American papers.” He grinned and poked Rob in the shoulder. “I’m looking out for you, old chap.”

Miss Goulet gave them a flirtatious smile as she passed, leaving a drift of jasmine scent in her wake.

“Hmmm.” Rob considered this startling sum. Half a million dollars would buy a lot of stone, timber, plaster, and roof tiles to refurbish Donalee, his family’s crumbling ancestral seat in southeast England. Not to mention carpets, drapes, and mullioned glass panes for the hundreds of windows in the castle. Then he winced. What made him any different from the lynx-eyed American mothers at the ball who had diligently perused periodicals like The Titled American before they made their plans? It contained a register of available and eligible titled bachelors, with descriptions of their age, accomplishments, and prospects. Page ninety-two held his entry:

The Honorable Robert Alexander Radclyfe, eldest son and heir of the ninth Earl of Wentwater. Entailed estates amount to 15,000 acres, but due to large mortgages do not yield their nominal value of $200,000. Educated at Oxford.

“You’re attracting attention, Rob,” murmured DeVille, gallantly stepping aside for a stunning blond in white cut-velvet and flashing sapphires, led by her mama, who swept toward the staircase, corseted to the extreme and resembling the prow of a battleship at full speed ahead.

“I think she likes you.” DeVille raised a discreet eyebrow toward the girl, who had slowed and cast an inviting glance over her bare shoulder at Rob.

Rob shrugged and forced a smile in the girl’s direction. His father had ordered him to New York for the sole purpose of finding an American heiress for a bride, with a dowry large enough to pay for the restoration so badly needed to bring the estate into the next century.

But he hadn’t met the right American heiress yet, and this was the last ball of the New York social season. As his father’s heir, he had a responsibility to marry well, but most of the English aristocrats occupied the same precarious position as his father, land rich and cash poor. The only heiresses with considerable dowries lived in America. So he had dutifully traveled to New York with the understanding he wouldn’t return until he’d found the right girl. He’d already had several irate letters from his father, wondering why he wasn’t engaged yet.

Soon the cream of New York society would be off to Newport to summer at their “cottages” on the Atlantic Ocean, or go yachting to exotic foreign ports. If only he could leave as well. Summer was short in England, and Donalee was at its loveliest then.

Several American debutantes had shown interest in him. But though he had to do his father’s bidding, he had one firm criterion unknown to his father.

Rob was determined to find a woman he could marry for love first and money second. He’d been in love once in his life, five years ago, at the tender age of nineteen. And then scarlet fever had struck England, and Lady Alice Mary DeVere survived its initial onslaught only to perish days later from a weakened heart. He sighed. Even now the memory pained him.

“The supper rooms are upstairs,” said DeVille. “Is it too early to have a bite?”

The ball would begin in earnest afterward, on the main floor of the Met. The crush of people upstairs was worse, and Rob resisted the urge to disappear. The blond debutante with the sapphires headed directly toward him, and he ducked through a slim door behind a velvet portiere. Immediately the roar of the ballroom crowd diminished, and he sighed, enjoying the moment of peace.

A row of mirrored tables lined the wall, with hooks opposite for capes and cloaks. A dressing room for the singers of the opera house.

Then he blinked. At the back of the narrow room, a gorgeous red-haired girl in a gown of apple-green silk intently read a book and hadn’t noticed his entrance. Curious, he crept closer, hoping to catch a glimpse of what it was that held her rapt attention. Her red hair was a mass of curls tied up most becomingly at the back of her head. Rather than the multiple diamonds and precious stones the other women wore, only a jeweled dragonfly pendant on a gold chain adorned her creamy décolleté.

Then the title of the book loomed into view. The Picture of Dorian Gray. He snorted at the idea of a young lady secretly reading a controversial novel, and, like a shot, the girl sprang out of her seat, with hands clenched on her hips and her glorious eyes blazing at him like green fire.

Rob stepped back and held up his hands. “I didn’t mean to startle you. Please accept my apologies.”

“Why should I? Of all the nerve.” She turned away, opened the table drawer, and slipped the book into it.

Rob cleared his throat. “I wanted to see what you were reading. You seemed so captivated by it. You must admit, it’s a rather curious choice for a young lady.”

Her brows slanted downward in a fierce frown. “I’ll admit no such thing. Do you always go around spying on women?”

Rob blinked at her accusation. “Of course not.” He smiled, trying to turn on the charm. “I stepped in here for a moment of peace. You know, ‘far from the madding crowd’?”

She almost smiled then. He was sure the hint of a dimple lurked near that pretty mouth.

He held out his hand. “I say, we’ve rather gotten off on the wrong foot, as you Americans put it. I’m Robert Radclyfe.”

She ignored his outstretched hand. “Please, allow me to pass. An unmarried woman must never be alone with a man.”

He slapped his forehead. Of course. If he hadn’t been so bewitched by her, he’d have understood at once the precarious position he had placed her in.

She didn’t answer—merely flounced past him in a flurry of silken skirts and mimosa perfume, opened the door, and slammed it hard behind her.

Rob took a deep breath and smiled. The evening had just become far more intriguing.