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Miss Astoria Greengrass is not a suitable wife. To start with, she’s not even an honourable. Draco is the firstborn son of Sir Lucius Malfoy, and his mother is a Black. While his mother married down, a baronet is still perfectly respectable in the eyes of society – as is his father’s position in politics. Draco himself graduated from Harrow and then Oxford; he'd been entered as a member of White’s since birth.
Miss Astoria Greengrass, by comparison, with her American money and utter lack of title and grace, is barely fit for civilised conversation.
That isn’t even to mention the trousers.
He isn’t meant to know about the trousers.
The Astoria Greengrass who he sees at balls and parties appears to be a proper young lady in all respects. She wears fashionable gowns, dances with eligible gentlemen, and has never been touched by scandal. Her biggest flaw is her accent.
Except.
Except Draco knows better.
It happened at the Zabinis’ house party at Fells Cross. Draco had been minding his own business, scouting a good hunting location for the next day, when he’d seen her.
Miss Astoria Greengrass in trousers, shirtsleeves, and waistcoat, trying to wrangle a cat.
“What on earth do you think you’re doing?” He demanded.
She turned her nose up at him. “I hardly see how that’s any business of yours.”
“You’re wearing men’s clothing.”
“Have you tried moving around in ladies’ clothing?” she countered, which irked him. He wanted to shout at her, but he was a gentleman. He restrained himself.
“I’m not certain how one behaves in America, but in Britain, it’s seen as rather unthinkable for a lady to gallivant about in trousers.”
“Fortunately, I don’t have to give a fig what you think,” Miss Astoria said. “You’re the son of a baronet. With my father’s money, I don’t have to waste time trying to impress you.”
“How dare you?” Draco snapped. “Do you not know who my mother is?”
“Your mother’s bloodline matters about as much as mine: everything before marriage, but nothing thereafter.”
“Trust me, Miss Astoria,” Draco said coolly, “you won’t have to worry about your bloodline.”
Whenever he tells anyone that Astoria Greengrass is no suitable wife, everyone assumes jealousy. As if Draco would be jealous of that! She’s a dollar princess; there is no short supply of such women in the London Season.
If they don’t want to listen, that’s just fine. They can be horrified by what they end up marrying to try to seek solvency.
Which is precisely why he’s horrified when his godfather comes to visit. Regulus Black had, like many second sons, attempted to make a path for himself in the Navy, but after a near-drowning, had sold his commission just a few months short of making Lieutenant.
That had been two decades ago. After leaving the Navy, he’d decided to become a solicitor, and he now lives in Bloomsbury as a confirmed bachelor. His brother, Sirius, is Duke Montagu, though Draco never sees much of the Duke outside of a few society events each year.
Which means, of course, that Regulus’s unannounced visits are rarely happy news. Especially when they occur in Draco’s own bachelor lodgings.
“Cousin Regulus,” Draco greets. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
“No pleasure today, I’m afraid,” Regulus says, setting his satchel down. “Shall I go straight to the point?”
Draco can only imagine what bad news Regulus brings, but he nods. “Best to. Is this something I’ll need scotch for?”
“It can’t hurt.”
So Draco pours two glasses (he’s not rude, after all), and hands one to his godfather. Regulus waits until Draco has taken a few sips.
“Your father has come to me to sort out his finances.”
Oh, no. That certainly doesn’t bode well. Draco can feel the dread start to claw at him. “I see…” He sips more scotch.
“I’ll say it plainly: it doesn’t look good. Not insolvency, but – your grandfather refused to move on from –” He stops himself at Draco’s doubtlessly distressed expression. “He wants you to marry. Your father. He intends to tell you next week, but I thought it prudent to give you a warning.”
As Regulus has no children of his own, Draco suspects that his godfather views him as a sort of surrogate son. The Lord knows Draco sees Regulus more often than his actual father.
“I appreciate it,” Draco says honestly. “Did my father draw up a list?”
“Not as of yet. I suspect that is what he will do this week.”
Which means Draco only has a week to prevent this nonsense. “Thank you, Cousin Regulus.”
He doesn’t know where the idea comes from. Most likely, he’s thinking impulsively of the idea that will annoy his father the most. Short of absconding to the continent (and as his father’s finances will pass to him with the title, Draco knows better than to be quite so foolish), this is his only option.
He finds Miss Astoria at the Parkinson Ball, scarcely two days after Regulus’s visit, and asks her to dance.
She raises her eyebrows in surprise, but accepts.
He waits until the dance begins to speak. “I have a… proposition.”
“Does it involve criticising my choice of attire?”
“It involves infuriating my father. And increasing your odds on the marriage mart.”
Miss Astoria actually smirks, which is nearly enough to make Draco reconsider this entire idea. Perhaps he should. “Well?”
“I would pretend to court you. Call on you, dance with you, promenade with you – everything to draw the attention of more eligible men.”
“And what do you get out of this?” she asks.
“I receive the satisfaction of infuriating my father.” And putting off an undesired match. He has to admit that Miss Astoria is beautiful. She is rich, too, which means his father can’t dismiss her as a matter of course. Perhaps if his father were a duke, but as a baronet? Unthinkable.
But an American dollar princess who goes about in trousers? With someone of his calibre? His father will lose his mind in private.
And then he’ll have to accept anyone Draco selects. Draco can have the time he needs to find an actually suitable match – any woman he wants, provided she isn’t poor. That shouldn’t be difficult.
“Very well,” Miss Astoria agrees. “It’s a deal.”
“It is an absolute pleasure doing business with you, Miss Astoria.”
She smiles broadly. Draco finds himself a bit thrown off by her beauty. “Oh, I know,” she says with the sort of confidence only American dollar princesses have.
Somewhere, in the back of his mind, he starts to get the sense that this will end in disaster.