One Oxfordshire, England Spring 1878 Title-hunting was not for the faint of heart. The occupation required a great deal of analysis, focus, and attention to detail, three qualities Cora Dove had no choice but to perfect. One had to be strategic when choosing the ideal candidate for a husband. Everyone knew that the perfect groom for a title hunter was a fortune hunter. However, it simply wasn't that easy. Too impoverished and the wealth gained from the marriage would drain away like water through a sieve. Cora was determined that the man she married not be a gambler, at least not to excess. The likelihood of finding an aristocrat who did not gamble at all would be akin to finding a fish that did not swim. There were other considerations, too. In fact, she had made a list. Too young and he'd likely be brash and unruly. Too old and he could hold outdated ideas about a wife's role. Too temperamental or too wicked in his pursuits and he would be difficult to manage. Too attractive and heartache would inevitably ensue-this one had been the last to go on the list. Cora quite liked good-looking men and wouldn't have minded marrying one. Her sister Jenny, however, who knew more than she about the qualities of handsome men, had been insistent, so the condition had gone on the list. Only a fool would aim for the highest title and leave it at that when there were so many other considerations. Cora was no fool. Not anymore. She had stepped off the steamer ship from New York with her mother and Eliza last week with her mission at the forefront of her mind. Find a titled husband and marry him by summer. Thankfully, she would not face the task alone. Camille, Dowager Duchess of Hereford, had agreed to act as a sort of agent to help the sisters find titled husbands. "Camille, pardon my disbelief, but there can't possibly be suitors here," Eliza, Cora's youngest sister, remarked, her brow furrowed in distinct displeasure. The three of them descended the steps of the train depot, umbrellas in hand to combat the spring drizzle. The train stretched out behind them on the track, belching steam into the cool air. They were in a small village-Cora had already forgotten the name-not far from Camille's country estate in Oxfordshire. The town was little more than a stop along the railroad, but it was quaint and picturesque, as Cora was finding most English villages to be. They possessed a charm lent to them by virtue of age that many of the industrial mill towns that had sprung up back home didn't have. The buildings, made of either stone or wattle and daub, had been standing for centuries longer than their brownstone back in New York. There was a security in that permanence that she found comforting. "I quite like it," Cora said. "As do I," Camille voiced her agreement. Cora and her sisters had met Camille many years ago when Mr. Hathaway and Fanny were still an item, though their relationship had been in its death throes. Camille's father and Mr. Hathaway had finished some sort of business deal together, and they had been invited to spend a week with the Bridwells at their summer home. It had been an awkward week, and Cora now realized it was because Mrs. Bridwell hadn't approved of their presence there, even though Mr. Bridwell hadn't been above putting his company's profits ahead of what was socially acceptable. Cora and Camille had spent most of the time together outdoors swimming and playing on the rope swings. Thankfully, Camille remembered her and had been a wonderful source of support when Cora had contacted her with the marriage plan. The duchess wasn't a proponent of the cash-for-class marriages that were becoming so popular between American heiresses and impoverished noblemen. Her own parents had all but auctioned her off to the highest title, and the marriage had been deeply unhappy until the much older duke had died and set her free. Now she was with Jacob Thorne, a man she loved. It had taken several letters and a few telegrams before Cora had convinced Camille that this marriage was what she wanted and that she was not being coerced by her mother. It was her negligent sire who had made this sort of marriage necessary, but Cora preferred not to dwell on that. Instead, she devoted every waking moment to finding the perfect husband. She had a journal specifically for the task that she had diligently filled with notes about each man Camille proposed to her. She knew their ages, their immediate family members, and how they spent their days. Perhaps more importantly, she knew how their family had lost their own fortunes. That crucial bit of information could be the difference between a comfortable future and one spent scraping pennies. Unlike the other American heiresses who came from new money families with industrial interests that kept their pockets deep, Cora and her sisters were illegitimate. They weren't marrying for mere social status, though that would be a boon; they were marrying for the very survival of their small family. "Then you can marry any gentleman who might reside here. I'll choose one who lives in London." Eliza nodded her head in finality and Cora hid her grin. If only it were that easy of a choice. "I understand the conditions are not ideal," Camille said, leading them around the muck and mud of the road to the higher-packed earth along the edge. They didn't seem to be heading toward the center of town but in the other direction along a narrow lane that followed the tracks before turning away. "But being able to observe these men outside of normal social conditions will give you rare insight. Since they don't know you yet and don't know that you're watching, they'll be more inclined to be themselves. Once at the house party, they'll all be on their best behavior, and you'll only see what they allow you to see." That was certainly true. Of the ten men Camille had invited to the upcoming house party at Stonebridge Cottage, they had been able to observe five without them being aware. First, they had gone to the Lakes, where they had discreetly assessed two of their suitors who were participating in an angler tournament. They were two of the most boring individuals Cora had ever encountered. Since boredom hadn't made it onto her list, they had passed the test. Then, they had gone to a lecture at the British Museum to locate a third who had been a bit argumentative with the lecturer. She had drawn a line through his name. She wouldn't countenance a rude husband. From there, they had quietly observed two others at Hyde Park. Both were a bit snobbish in their bearing, so Cora had put a question mark by their names. Today was their last jaunt before the house party began early next week. They were here to watch a football game. "I'm afraid the match has already begun, but we'll be able to see enough to judge their sportsmanship. I know that's not on your list, but you can learn a lot from how a man treats his teammates and adversaries," Camille continued. "Perhaps we can pop over to the public house and watch them after, though that might be pushing things." It wouldn't do to have anyone recognize the duchess. Once they heard the sisters' American accents, their disguises of plain clothes would be quite useless to hide their identities from their prospective suitors. All objectivity would be gone, and they would lose their chance to observe them unaware. "Perhaps we can watch for a time," Cora said. They rounded a corner after a row of tiny houses onto a narrow dirt lane that led to a field. It did appear the game was already in progress with roughly two dozen men on the pitch. Half wore green shirtsleeves while the other half wore yellow. Both wore trousers or pantaloons that would never be white again with all the mud, along with high socks and leather boots, and their heads were bare. They chased a round leather ball across the field in a match that was much more physical than she had anticipated. "Careful of your step, dear," Camille said, indicating a particularly deep puddle, and Cora lithely stepped around it. When she had righted herself, the duchess and Eliza were continuing on their way to the left where a robust crowd had gathered to cheer on the players. Cora stood transfixed at the sheer physicality of the drama playing out on the field. One man hurried to kick the ball, grunting when another one ran into him, nearly sending him careening on the soaked ground. The ball had only been glanced, which sent it several yards toward the far side. Another man, his golden hair damp with sweat and rain and falling about his face, cursed and then let out a victorious yell as he ran through several opponents and managed to make good contact with the ball, kicking it in an arc, sending it farther downfield toward the goal. The players turned as one and hurried in that direction. If there was any sort of coordination among them, Cora couldn't see it. They all seemed madcap in their zeal to obtain the ball. For a moment, she was struck by the sheer size and athleticism of the men. Without a coat to hide them, their shoulders appeared extra wide, the muscles working under the thin material of their shirts as they ran, the rain melding the fabric to them. Their chests seemed thick and strapped with sinew. It suddenly became apparent why good Society insisted on a man wearing his coat at all times. It might prove too distracting otherwise. Although, most Society men she had met had a bit of soft about them. Not like these men. She smiled to herself and began to make her way over to where Camille and Eliza had joined the spectators. However, she couldn't stop herself from looking back at the one who had kicked the ball. He was tall and muscled, his jaw square and firm as his eyes narrowed, watching to see which way the ball would go when it finally broke free of the group. He loped easily toward his teammates, his long legs eating up the distance without making him seem out of breath. It was probably too much to hope that he would be one of her suitors, though the fact that he was so handsome meant he violated a rule on her list and she shouldn't consider him anyway. As she stared at him, the ball suddenly broke free of the chaos on the field, hurtling in her direction. A player roughly her own size came rushing toward her, his eyes crazed with ferocity as he screamed with the triumph of a predator about to seize its prey. She barely got a look at him before the man she had been admiring yelled, "Briggs!" drawing her attention back to him. He'd picked up speed, running full bore in their direction, ostensibly to intercept his teammate from flattening her. She sidestepped the ball, somehow managing to miss Briggs but stepping into the path of the golden-haired man. He tried to stop, but the change in momentum sent him skidding over a patch of mud and directly into her. Her breath rushed out of her at the initial contact, flinging her umbrella and journal in the air, and her own feet caught the mud and they tumbled to the ground together. He twisted, catching the brunt of the fall, but they rolled several more times before coming to a stop in the soggy grass. The players were still following the ball, and as they lumbered closer, sounding like a herd of cattle, she closed her eyes, expecting them to fall over her and the man. The anticipated disaster never happened as they continued running down the field. She opened her eyes to see his staring down at her. They were green like emeralds and intense with concern. She had never seen a color like them on anything but a cat. "Are you hurt?" he asked. She took in a breath, surprised to find that nothing was sore. "I don't think so." Her voice came out sounding winded. He leaned over her as he ran a hand over her rib cage and up over her breast. She gasped as he pressed, no doubt looking for injury, but her nipple tightened beneath his touch just the same, and her blood warmed in a way that was unseemly. She sucked in a hard breath. "Excuse me!" "You are hurt." "No!" She wrenched his hand away. His brow furrowed, flummoxed by her outrage. "No?" Perhaps he hadn't realized that he had all but fondled her breast with his pawing. She took in another breath and managed to speak in a calmer tone. "I am uninjured." She attempted to sit up as embarrassment began to creep in, but she was stuck beneath the weight of his thigh over hers-his very large, very solid thigh. In fact, his entire body seemed very large and very solid above her. She ought to feel more put out, but suddenly, she didn't quite mind lying here like this beneath him. "Let me help you up," he said just as she was becoming accustomed to his attentions. Removing himself from her, he offered her his hand. She took it, still too aware of him in a physical sense. Her heart pounded as heat suffused her cheeks. At his full height, he stood nearly a head taller than her. His torso might well have been double the width of hers. Aside from a few dances, she had never been this close to a man before, and certainly not one so attractive. "You might watch where you're going next time." She was struggling to catch her breath as if she were the one who had run across the field. Her hand shook when she took it back, so she wiped at the blades of grass stuck to her bodice to hide the tremble. His hands followed, helping her wipe the debris away and sending her nerve endings teetering wildly. Before she could gather herself to protest-which may have taken a while, considering a very real part of her was enjoying the attention-he said, "You might have stayed off the pitch." His words cut through the havoc within her. "I wasn't on the pitch. I was off to the side. Your friend, Briggs, was outside of the boundary." "You play association football, do you?" His gaze narrowed in obvious irritation. "No, but every game has a boundary line. I was outside of yours." She turned to indicate that fact, but there didn't actually seem to be a line designating any boundary. Excerpted from The Stranger I Wed by Harper St. George All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.
