His grandfather's frown deepened, if that were possible, and he thumped the cane again. "You dare mention /that name/ in my hearing?" he asked rhetorically. "Mrs. Turner was dead to the world five years ago, Sheringford, when she chose to commit the unspeakable atrocity of running off with you, leaving her lawful husband behind." It had happened on Duncan's twenty-fifth birthday – and, more to the point, on his wedding day. He had abandoned his bride, virtually at the altar, and run away with her sister-in-law, her brother's wife. Laura.

The whole thing had been one of the most spectacular scandals London had seen in years, perhaps ever. At least, he assumed it had. He had not been here to experience it in person.

He said nothing since this was hardly the time or the place for a discussion on the meaning of the word /atrocity/. "I ought to have turned you out then without a penny," his grandfather told him. He had not been invited to sit down, Duncan noticed. "But I allowed you to continue drawing on the rents and income of Woodbine Park so that you would have the wherewithal to stay far away out of my sight – and out of the sight of all decent, respectable people. But now the woman is gone, unmourned, and you may go to the devil for all I care. You promised solemnly on my seventieth birthday that you would marry by your thirtieth and have a son in your nursery before your thirty-first. You abandoned Miss Turner at the altar five years ago, and you turned thirty six weeks ago." /Had/ he promised something so rash? Of course, he would have been a mere puppy at the time. Was /this/ the explanation for the sudden cutting off of his funds? That his thirtieth birthday had come and gone and he was still a single man? He had been with Laura until four months ago, for the love of God. But not married to her, of course. Turner had steadfastly refused to divorce her. His grandfather had expected him to find a bride within the past four months, then, and marry her just to honor a promise made many years ago – by a boy who knew nothing of life? "There is still time to produce an heir before my thirty-first birthday," he pointed out – a rather asinine thing to say, as his grandfather's reaction demonstrated. He snorted. It was not a pleasant sound. "Besides," Duncan continued, "I believe you must have misremembered the promise I made, sir. I seem to recall promising that I would marry before your eightieth birthday." Which was… when? Next year? The year after? "Which happens to be sixteen days from now," his grandfather said with brows of thunder again. "Where is your bride, Sheringford?" /Sixteen days/? Damn it all!

Duncan strode across the room to the window in order to delay his answer, and stood looking down on the square, his hands clasped at his back. Could he pretend now that it was the eighty-/fifth/ birthday he had named? He could not even remember the promise, for God's sake. And his grandfather might be making all this up just to discomfit him, just to give himself a valid excuse for cutting off his grandson from all funds. Woodbine Park, though a property belonging to the Marquess of Claverbrook, was traditionally granted to the heir as his home and main source of income. Duncan had always considered it his, by right of the fact that he was the heir after his father's death, even though he had not lived there for years. He had never taken Laura there. "No answer," the marquess said after a lengthy silence, a nasty sneer in his voice. "I produced one son, who died at the age of forty-four when he had no more sense than to engage in a curricle race and try to overtake his opponent on a sharp bend in the road. And that one son produced one son of his own. /You."/ It did not sound like a compliment. "He did, sir," Duncan agreed. What else /was/ there to say? "Where did I go wrong?" his grandfather asked irritably and rhetorically. "My brother produced five lusty sons before he produced any of his daughters, and those five in their turn produced eleven lusty sons of their own, at least two each. And some of /them/ have produced sons." "And so, sir," Duncan said, seeing where this was leading, "there is no danger of the title falling into abeyance anytime soon, is there? There is no urgent hurry for me to get a son." It was the wrong thing to say – though there probably /was/ no right thing.

The cane thumped the floor again. "I daresay the title will pass to Norman in the not-too-distant future," his grandfather said, "after my time and after yours, which will not last even as long as your father's if you continue with the low life you have chosen. I intend to treat him as though he were already my heir. I will grant him Woodbine Park on my eightieth birthday." Duncan's back stiffened as if someone had delivered him a physical blow.

He closed his eyes briefly. This was the final straw. It was bad enough – nothing short of a disaster, in fact – that Woodbine and its rents were being withheld from /him/. But to think of /Cousin Norman/, of all people, benefiting from his loss … Well, it was a viciously low blow. "Norman has a wife and two sons," the marquess told him. "As well as a daughter. Now, /there/ is a man who knows his duty." Yes, indeed.

Both Norman's father and his grandfather were dead. He was the next heir after Duncan. He also had a shrewd head on his shoulders. He had married Caroline Turner six weeks after Duncan abandoned her on their wedding day, and he had apparently got three children off her, two of them sons.

He had taken all the right steps to ingratiate himself with his great-uncle.

Duncan frowned down at the empty square beyond the window. Though it was not quite empty. A maid was down on her hands and knees scrubbing the steps of a house on the opposite side.

Did Norman /know/ that Woodbine was to all intents and purposes to be his in sixteen days' time? "If I had written down that promise I made on your seventieth birthday, sir," Duncan said, "and if you had kept it, I believe you would discover now that my promise really was to marry by your eightieth birthday rather than my thirtieth, though they both fall in the same year, of course." His grandfather snorted again – a sound that conveyed utter contempt. "And what do you plan to do when you leave here in a few minutes' time, Sheringford?" he asked. "Grab the first female you meet on the street and drag her off in pursuit of a special license?" /Something like that/. When one had been brought up to be a well-to-do gentleman, to administer land, to expect to inherit an illustrious title and fabulous wealth one day, one was not educated or trained to any other form of gainful employment. Not any that would give him sufficient income to support dependents, including a child, as well as keep his own body and soul together, anyway. "Not at all." Duncan turned to look steadily at his grandfather. "I have a bride picked out, sir. We are already unofficially betrothed, in fact, even though there has been no public announcement yet." "Indeed?" There was a world of scorn in the one word. His grandfather raised his eyebrows and looked incredulous – as well he might. "And who /is/ this lady, pray?" "She has sworn me to secrecy," Duncan said, "until she is ready for the announcement to be made." "Ha! Convenient indeed!" his grandfather exclaimed, his brows snapping together again. "It is a barefaced lie, Sheringford, just like everything else in your miserable life. There is no such person, no such betrothal, no such impending marriage. Take yourself out of my sight." "But if there /is/?" Duncan asked him, standing his ground though he had the feeling he might as well be standing on quicksand. "What if there /is/ such a lady, sir, and she has agreed to marry me on the assumption that I have security to offer her, that we will live at Woodbine Park and finance our marriage and our family on its rents and income?" His grandfather glared at him with no diminution of either anger or scorn. "If there /is/ such a lady," he said, almost spitting out the words, "and /if/ she is undisputedly an eligible bride for the Earl of Sheringford and future Marquess of Claverbrook, and /if/ you present her to me here the day before the papers announce your betrothal, and /if/ you marry her no later than one day before my birthday, then Woodbine Park will be yours again on that day. That is a formidable number of /ifs/, Sheringford. If you fail in any one of them, as I have no doubt you will, then Woodbine Park will be your cousin's on my birthday." Duncan inclined his head. "I believe," his grandfather said, "Norman and his lady may safely continue packing up their belongings ready for the move." /Continue/? Norman /did/ know, then? "They would be well advised not to, sir," Duncan said. "I will not invite you to stay for refreshments," his grandfather said, his eyes raking over his grandson with contempt. "You are going to need every hour of the next fifteen days in which to find a bride – a /respectable/ bride – and persuade her to marry you." Duncan made him another bow. "I shall explain the necessity for haste to my betrothed without further delay, then," he said, and heard his grandfather snort one more time as he let himself out of the room and proceeded down the stairs to retrieve his hat and cane.

This was one devil of a nasty coil.

How the deuce was he to find a bride and marry her all within fifteen days? And a respectable lady of good /ton/ to boot – his grandfather, he knew, would accept no less. No respectable lady would touch him with a twenty-foot oar – not once she knew his infamous story, anyway. And soon enough the fact that he was back would spread all over London – even if it had not already done so.

Besides all of which, he had no wish /whatsoever/ to marry. He had only recently been freed from a lengthy connection that he had found tiresome, to say the least – though poor Laura had /not/ gone unmourned.

He wanted to enjoy his newfound freedom alone, at least for a few years.

Besides, and far more important, there was a purely practical reason why a wife would be a severe encumbrance. No respectable lady would tolerate the presence of an illegitimate child in her home – or even a strong attachment between her husband and his gardener's presumably legitimate grandson. And how would he ever be able to mask that attachment?

It was unthinkable.

Besides, Toby, however well he had been coached, would not remember all the time to call him /sir/ or /my lord/ instead of /Papa/.

Damn it all!

But marry he must. He needed Woodbine. He needed his home and his roots.

It was true, of course, that eventually he would inherit all his grandfather's properties and vast fortune, /including/ Woodbine Park, which was entailed and could not be given as an outright gift to Norman or anyone else. His grandfather could do nothing to prevent any of that happening beyond outliving him. But the trouble was, Duncan could not afford to wait for his grandfather's demise, which might be many years in the future. Besides, he could not under any circumstances wish for the old man's death. Far from it.

He needed Woodbine /now/.

He had a sudden image of Norman as lord of the manor there – with Caroline as its lady. And their children roaring through the house and romping in the park instead of Toby. It was a painful image. Woodbine was /his home/.

Marriage really was the only option open to him, then. But there was no time in which to choose a bride with any care to make sure he had picked someone who would not drive him to distraction within a fortnight – or, to be fair, someone /he/ would not drive to distraction. There was only time to grab whomever he could find. /If/ there was time even for that.

He could hardly walk up to the first lady he saw at the first ball he attended and ask her to marry him. Could he? And even /if/ he did, and /if/ for some strangely peculiar reason she said yes, he would still have her family to persuade.

It simply could not be done.

Except that failure was not an option.

She would have to be someone very young and biddable. Someone whose parents would be only too glad to bag a future marquess for their daughter, scandalous reputation be damned. Some cit's daughter, perhaps – no, she would not be acceptable to his grandfather. Some impoverished gentleman's daughter, then. Someone plain of face and figure.

Duncan felt himself break out in a cold sweat as he stepped out onto the square.

Or someone… But of course, it /was/ spring, was it not? The time of the Season in London? The time of the great marriage mart, when ladies came to town with the express purpose of finding themselves a husband? And notoriety aside, he was the Earl of Sheringford, even if it /was/ just a courtesy title and essentially meaningless in itself. He was also the heir to a marquess's very real title and properties and fortune – and the incumbent was eighty years old, or would be in sixteen days' time.