Chapter One

      Late October, 1803

      The Fifth Marquess of Huntercombe perused the list in his hand with something akin to panic. He gulped. No, not merely akin, it was the thing itself: sheer, unadulterated panic. His hands were damp and a thin line of perspiration—damn it to hell—trickled down his spine. In his own library. All because of a list his elder sister had handed him. And he’d only read the first few names. That was quite enough.

      He cleared his throat. ‘Letty, this is not—’

      ‘Huntercombe,’ Letitia, Lady Fortescue, silenced him with an unnerving stare as well as his title. ‘You acknowledge that you must marry again.’

      She always called him Huntercombe in just that tone when she wished to remind him of his duty. As if he needed reminding. The Marquess of Huntercombe always did his duty. To the family, his estates and Parliament.

      ‘And that it is a matter of some urgency. With which,’ Letty added, ‘I wholeheartedly concur. Gerald’s death was a disaster.’

      Hunt’s jaw tightened. ‘Yes, quite. But—’

      ‘Caroline and I have listed all the eligible girls currently on the market.’

      Market was definitely the right word. And girls. He accorded the list another glance—it reminded him of nothing so much as a Tattersall’s sales catalogue of well-bred fillies, with said fillies paraded, albeit in absentia, for his consideration. Letty and their sister Caroline had included each filly’s sire and dam, notable connections, looks, accomplishments including languages spoken, and fortune. Staying power wasn’t included, although he sincerely doubted his sisters had heard of, let alone seen, Harris’s infamous list of Covent Garden Impures. He looked again at the list, forced himself to read all the names...

      ‘For God’s sake, Letty!’

      By the fire, his spaniel, Fergus, raised his head and cocked his ears.

      ‘What?’

      ‘Chloë Highfield?’ He signalled for Fergus to stay put and the dog sank back with a sigh.

      Letty looked affronted. ‘Well, of course. She’s—’

      ‘My goddaughter!’ Hunt could imagine the reaction if he attempted to pay his addresses to Chloë. His imagination didn’t merely quail; it turned tail and fled. Although not before he had an all-too-likely vision of his good friend Viscount Rillington’s approaching fist.

      ‘Oh.’ Letty had the grace to look disconcerted. ‘I’d forgotten. How very awkward. Cross Chloë off, then. It can’t be helped.’

      Cross Chloë—With a strangled curse, Hunt strode to the fireplace and consigned the entire list to the flames.

      ‘Giles! Hours of work went into that!’

      ‘I don’t doubt it,’ he said through gritted teeth. If only a similar amount of thought had gone into it. ‘Letty, you wrote to me last month wishing me a happy birthday. Do you recall how old I am?’

      Letty scowled. ‘Since I turned fifty-six in March, it was your fiftieth birthday. Although what that has to say to anything I’m sure I don’t know!’

      Hunt stared at her in disbelief. What the hell did she think a man of fifty was going to do with an eighteen-year-old virgin?

      Giving up on tea, Hunt walked over to his desk and poured himself a large brandy from the decanter there. The mere thought of taking to wife—and bed—a chit only a couple of years older than his own daughter would have been if she’d lived left him vaguely nauseated. Oh, it happened. All the time. But it wasn’t going to happen with him. The very idea made him feel like an elderly satyr. An incestuous one to boot when he considered Chloë. For God’s sake! He’d taken the child to Astley’s Amphitheatre for her tenth birthday and still took her to Gunter’s for an ice whenever they were both in London. He would be one of Chloë’s guardians if that was ever required. He took a swallow of brandy, felt it burn its way down. If Chloë was old enough to appear on anyone’s list of eligible damsels, he’d probably bought their last ice cream. It made him feel positively elderly.

      Letty leaned forward. ‘Giles, marriageable ladies do not languish on the shelf for years on the chance that a middle-aged widower will exercise a modicum of common sense.’ She scowled. ‘If a woman remains unwed at thirty there is a very good reason for it! I acknowledge the difficulty, but—’

      ‘A widow.’

      ‘What?’

      Hunt set the brandy down. ‘Letty, a widow would be far more appropriate. A woman of some maturity would be a far better match for me.’ A widow would be less demanding of his time, his attention...his affections. She would know how to go on and not require his guidance. And he wouldn’t feel like a satyr.

      Letty scowled. ‘Well, I suppose so, but you need a woman young enough to bear children!’

      ‘Thirties,’ Hunt said. ‘That’s still young enough.’

      It was rational. It was sensible. An older woman would not have stars in her eyes or romantic fancies he could not fulfil.

      Letty pushed her tea away. ‘You may pour me some brandy.’

      He reached over and did so, passing it to her.

      She took a healthy swig. ‘No money with a widow, most likely. She may even have children.’

      ‘No matter.’ A widow’s dowry usually went to her first husband’s estate, or was settled on her children. Any jointure, in ninety-nine cases out of a hundred, ceased upon