Wife Wanted

  All for Love

  Book 3

  Wren St. Claire

  © Copyright 2026 by Wren St. Claire

  Text by Wren St. Claire

  Cover by The Swoonies – theswoonies.com

  Dragonblade Publishing, Inc. is an imprint of Kathryn Le Veque Novels, Inc.

  P.O. Box 23

  Moreno Valley, CA 92556

  ceo@dragonbladepublishing.com

  Produced in the United States of America

  First Edition January 2026

  Kindle Edition

  Reproduction of any kind except where it pertains to short quotes in relation to advertising or promotion is strictly prohibited.

  All Rights Reserved.

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

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  Thank you for your support of a small press. At Dragonblade Publishing, we strive to bring you the highest quality Historical Romance from some of the best authors in the business. Without your support, there is no ‘us’, so we sincerely hope you adore these stories and find some new favorite authors along the way.

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  Additional Dragonblade books by Author Wren St. Claire

  All for Love Series

  An Inconvenient Marriage (Book 1)

  The Viscount Needs a Wife (Book 2)

  Wife Wanted (Book 3)

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Publisher’s Note

  Additional Dragonblade books by Author Wren St. Claire

  A note on pronunciation

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Epilogue

  Author’s Historical Note

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  A note on pronunciation

  Comes is a Roman military title equated later with the Frankish Count and Anglo-Saxon Eorl (later “earl”). It is pronounced Co-mees.

  Chapter One

  WANTED: Secretary required for esteemed antiquities scholar. Respectable, unmarried, young (up to 30 years of age) lady, of good birth and character. Must have extensive knowledge of antiquities, excellent Latin and Greek, ability to sketch, and a neat and orderly mind. Experience with archaeological digs an advantage. This position is for a twelve-month project cataloguing dig sites and antiquities discovered in southern and central Britain and requires the lady to live in and be prepared for travel. All living expenses will be covered, and a generous salary will be payable to the right applicant. All proprieties will be adhered to.

  Deodonatus Kininmounth, 6th Earl of Pendrell, Deo to his friends, reviewed for the dozenth time the advertisement he had placed last month in British Antiquities, his favorite journal. He had hoped to have received some applications for the post by now. Perhaps I shouldn’t have mentioned the living in bit? Was it putting them off? But he had wanted to be very transparent about his requirements without baldly stating that he was looking for a wife who would also fulfil the role of secretary.

  If she has half a brain—and I certainly hope she does, or what is the point?—she will understand what is implied. How can the proprieties be adhered to if we are not married?

  He was a single man living alone, after all—except for the servants.

  He put the journal away and returned to his desk to complete the next chapter on his book, A Survey of Sussex Antiquities. Kester, his lolloping red Irish Setter, rearranged his long furry limbs under the desk with a flop and a sigh.

  He glanced under the desk at the dog. “Your walk is not scheduled until ten o’clock, Kes. Have some patience,” he admonished gently. Kester raised his silky head with long floppy ears and rested it on Deo’s knee. Deo stroked the head and scratched the ears absently, contemplating his next sentence.

  The prospect out the window from his desk showed the rolling green of the south lawn of his Sussex country estate, with a glimpse of blue ocean in the distance. He always resided here for the summer months, when London became stiflingly hot. Last summer he’d spent the entire time unearthing and cataloguing a new find right on his doorstep before it disappeared into the ocean: a small hoard of Saxon coins and church reliquaries. He’d worked flat out for weeks to get it all done before the wind and weather destroyed the find. It had underlined for him his need for an assistant.

  Now he was itching to get started on the new project he had been assigned by the Society for Antiquaries, but for that he really needed his secretary-wife. The prospect of having a companion who shared his passion for antiquities, who understood—a woman he could talk to—set up an ache in his chest.

  At the age of thirty-two he had despaired of finding a lady of suitable birth who shared his interests, whom he could, in short, contemplate living with for the rest of his life. He was not an easy man to live with. He knew this. Finding a lady who could tolerate him was a tall order. Then his friend Emrys, Viscount Ashford, had suggested he advertise. Deo had thought the idea was brilliant, but perhaps he was wrong, and he was destined to be alone as he dwindled into old age. The prospect was depressing.

  He shook his head to dispel the thoughts, pushing his spectacles back up his hawklike nose, and focused on the page before him, reaching for his notes, with one large, freckled hand.

  Chapter Two

  “Emily! Lift your head up for goodness’ sake. You will get stooped shoulders if you slouch like that. Now practice your curtsy again, as if I am the viscount. Hold out your hand for him to kiss, and for the love of all that is holy, smile! At least try to act like you are glad to see him!”

  “Yes, Mama,” said Miss Emily Grenfell softly, trying to obey all these instructions at once and almost losing her balance in the process. She was sure that she wasn’t wearing a smile but a grimace. However, Mama seemed happy enough with the result, sniffing and going to the front parlor window.

  “Gracious, he is here! Now remember everything I have told you. Sit there,” she waved her daughter to the sofa, “fold your hands in your lap, keep your feet together, back straight, chin up, and smile!”

  Two minutes later, the door opened, and their butler announced, “Viscount Bidenden, my lady.”

  The Countess of Efford rose and smiled broadly at their guest, a well-turned-out young man of medium height and build, with soft brown hair and green eyes.

  “What a lovely surprise, my lord. Do come in. You know my little Emily, of course. But of course, you do,” with a laugh so false it made Emily wince internally. “You danced with her twice last night at Lady Sefton’s ball. Emily!” she prompted, and Emily rose and sank into the required curtsy, proffered her hand, and managed to raise her head, smile, and not wobble this time.

  “My lord,” she murmured, her eyes dropping in spite of herself.

  The viscount took her hand and kissed it. “Miss Grenfell, I trust you are quite recovered from last night’s frivolities?”

  “I am,” she responded, still looking at her slippered feet.

  “Please take a seat, Viscount,” said Mama, waving hi
m to the couch beside Emily as she sat again, her heart beating uncomfortably fast. “I shall just see about the tea,” said Mama mendaciously, leaving the room, much to Emily’s anguish.

  “Your mama is most accommodating,” murmured Bidenden, managing to secure her hand in his and kiss it again. Emily tried to tug it away, but he kept a firm grip on it, “You must know the reason for my attentions, Miss Grenfell.”

  He spoke in a low, earnest tone that gave her goosebumps—and not the good sort. Mama, come back! Before she could respond, he went on quickly. “I am most smitten with your beauty!” He kissed her hand again, then turned it to most improperly press his lips to her exposed wrist.

  Emily snorted inwardly. Beauty indeed! I’m as plain as milk! Smitten with my fortune more like! Mama, for goodness’ sake, come back!

  “I will speak with your father, Miss Grenfell. You must know what about. I hope to receive a positive response, hm?”

  Fortunately for her, Mama reappeared at that juncture, sparing her the necessity of making a reply, and he let go of her hand hastily.

  Tea was served, and stilted conversation, largely between the viscount and Mama, ensued. At the end of half an hour, Bidenden stood to take his leave. “When might I find Lord Efford at home, Countess?”

  Mama flushed with pleasure and smiled so broadly, all her teeth showed. “Why, the earl is generally home until at least twelve o’clock most mornings, but if you are wishful to speak with him, I can let him know so that he will be at home to you when you call, my lord!”

  “Please do so, ma’am,” he said with a neat bow. He turned to take Emily’s hand and kiss it again. “Until we meet again, Miss Grenfell.” The throbbing accents in which this was uttered made Emily cringe and flush with embarrassment. Wholly unable to meet his no doubt ardent gaze, she mumbled something unintelligible, and to her relief, he let go of her hand and left.

  She sank down onto the couch with shaking knees. This couldn’t be happening! After two seasons with no offers (despite the temptation of her fortune), she was now facing the inevitability of being thrust into marriage with a man whose only interest in her was the settlements she would bring.

  Her mother, unable to contain her transports, pulled her up into an embrace and polkaed her round the room. “My dearest, what a triumph! The heir to the Marquess of Malmsbury! Such a success for you! At last, my dreams are coming true!” Mama dabbed at the corners of her eyes.

  “M-mama, I do not wish to m-marry Viscount Bidenden,” said Emily shakily.

  “What? Nonsense! Of course you do! He is a handsome young lord, and he clearly adores you. What is wrong with you?” Mama’s voice escalated with each sentence. “This is an irritation of the nerves! A distempered freak! Go to your room. I’ve no patience with you, girl! You are all about in your head!”

  Emily stared at her helplessly.

  “Go!” said her mother, her face turning red. “And don’t show your face until you are prepared to be sensible! Ridiculous! I never heard of such a thing! He will make you a marchioness, you stupid girl!” She waved at her in a shooing motion. “Go away! I cannot bear to look at you! After everything we have done for you, too! Such lack of gratitude. Go! Go!” Her mother screamed at her, and Emily bolted, shaking from head to toe and chased all the way to her room by the sounds of her mother’s building sobs. Mama was going to have one of her fits of hysteria.

  Shutting and locking her bedroom door, Emily sank down on her bed in despair. Her mother would rail at her and hector her until she accepted the viscount, she just knew it. She was trapped. She had thought if she could just hold out for one more year, she would turn twenty-one and be able to access her allowance. It wasn’t her full fortune, for her father still controlled that, and if she married, it would pass straight into her husband’s hands. But there was an annuity from her grandmother that was hers by right, and she would get that once she reached her majority. She wiped tears off her cheeks and sniffed. Perhaps marriage to the viscount wouldn’t be so very bad. He was young at least, and not ill looking. She could have done worse, she supposed. Yet everything inside her rebelled at the notion.

  Such a frivolous and fashionable young man would not tolerate her passion for antiquities any more than Mama did. He would force her to go to parties and be a hostess and expect her to be witty and pretty, and she wasn’t any of those things. She was plain and shy and hated company. She was much happier with her books and musty artifacts.

  She slumped back on the bed with a sigh and sat up quickly as something jabbed her in the back. It was a flat parcel lying on her bed. Distracted from her misery, she smiled, for she knew what it was. It was her copy of the latest volume of British Antiquities, her favorite journal. Gregory, the butler, who was her partner in crime, must have brought it up for her. He kept all her mail safe for her and made sure Mama couldn’t steal it.

  With a squeal of excitement, she tore the wrapping off and feasted her eyes on the precious volume. It took a substantial slice of her pin money every quarter to pay for the subscription, but she didn’t mind. She would pore over the articles, reading them again and again, dreaming of the day when perhaps her name would appear below the title of an article that would be read and esteemed by other scholars—well, her pseudonym. She couldn’t publish under her own name, of course. But she would know it was hers.

  She opened the volume and read through the table of contents, savoring each title with delight. There are hours of reading here. If Mama doesn’t wish to see my face, she won’t. I will stay in my room and read to my heart’s content. She banked up the pillows and settled back to devour each delight one by one.

  It was three hours later when she found it. She almost skipped over it because she didn’t generally read advertisements, but something about this one caught her attention. When she began to read it, her heart skipped and thudded so hard she thought it would choke her.

  Her hand stole to her mouth to stifle the whimper of longing rising in her throat as she read. Oh, if only . . . She reached the end and reread it again and again, trying to decipher the meaning behind it. I can’t apply . . . can I?

  Even if she applied, she would never get the position. She didn’t have enough experience. But oh! It was her dream come true! It must be a lady scholar who required an assistant, and that must be why she was asking for another lady. If that was the case, perhaps she wouldn’t expect someone with lots of experience. Perhaps she would have a chance.

  She squealed with excitement and drummed her heels on the bed. I will apply. What do I have to lose after all?

  She spent an age over her reply, and it was quite late by the time she finished writing it out all fair, folded, and sealed it. No one had come to her room to see if she was all right or required food, and her grumbling stomach reminded her that she was famished. She hadn’t eaten since breakfast and it was now after midnight. She went to her door and checked the hallway. Everything was quiet. Her parents had either retired early for the night or gone out, and as a consequence the servants had also retired by the looks of it. She crept down the stairs to the kitchens and the butler’s room, where she knocked softly.

  “Yes,” said a voice.

  She opened the door and poked her head round it. Gregory was sitting in his dressing gown, drinking a glass of some amber liquid with a book in his lap. He looked up startled and, rising, dropped the book. “Miss Grenfell, is there something amiss?”

  “No, nothing, Gregory, I’m just hungry, and I need you to post this for me. Will you?”

  “What’s this, my lady? Mischief?”

  “No, it’s something very serious and important to me. Will you post it please and not tell anyone?”

  “You’ll be the death of me, you know,” he said with a sigh, rumpling his grey hair. “Very well. Now, you want something to eat? Her ladyship said you were to be left alone.” He put the envelope in the pocket of his coat hanging on the back of the door.

  “Yes, she’s punishing me because I told her I don’t want to marry the viscount,” said Emily, following him to the kitchen, where he fetched her cold meat, cheese, bread, and a cup of ale and sat with her while she ate. “Have they gone out?” she asked, referring to her parents.