Page 191 of Dukes for Dessert

•He mustn’t be too attractive—only marginally so.

She didn’t wish to be tempted, nor distracted.

•He mustn’t have gambling addictions.

•He mustn’t expect to share her private quarters.

•He mustn’t expect children.

•He mustn’t expect more than £4,000 per year.

•He could, indeed, keep a mistress after a proper period, if he must, but only if he promised to be discreet.

In the end, her list was quite extensive, but fair, with more than one hundred and fifty “concerns.”

Yes, that was a better word than “requirements.” The last thing she wished to do was to trap a man in misery. But, then again, the last thing Margaret ever meant to do was fall in love. Love was the invention of innocents—not a reality of this world.

2

London, June 15

One could take the man from the country, but one could never take the country out of the man.

The London apartment was modestly furnished, with rugged pieces that emphasized Gabriel’s meager beginnings. He made no apologies for his provinciality. It was part of who he was. No matter the formality of his education, he was still a wee boy in ragged breeches, and he would go to his grave with imagined holes in the soles of his shoes. It annoyed him to no end to consider the betrothal prospects available to a man of means—most of them pea-brained twits, who were far more concerned with putting their breasts on display than they were about revealing just a wee bit of sexy wit.

Sighing, he struck a match, sinking back into his favorite chair as it flared. He lit the cheroot, then sucked the smoke into the back of his throat as he surveyed the familiar room—terrible habit he’d picked up. He ought to put it aside as swiftly as the Earl of Aberdeen seemed to put aside his lovers. But then, as had already been established; Gabriel couldn’t blame the fool man, as there was only one girl in all his life who hadn’t fantastically bored him, and she was long gone from his life—and no doubt he’d embellished that memory as well.

As for the decor of his office… his father had taken up woodworking after retiring from his position with the Duke of Blackwood, as London hardly offered any occasion to “get the dirt under one’s nails.” A simple wooden rocker sat beside his hearth, evidence of his father’s labors. Draped over that chair was a plush quilt his mother had stitched for him years ago, “for those wintry nights at school.”

It was only the two of them now—he and his Da—as his mother had passed away some years ago. His siblings were scattered to the winds—a sister in Boston, another in New York; a brother in India and another in Scotland. None were flush enough to care for their father, so the task fell to Gabriel, and it suited him well.

However, he’d thought a move from the country would prove beneficial. Damned if his old man wasn’t behaving strangely of late. All day long, at intervals, he’d been coming into the room as though he had something to say, and then departing again, shaking his head like an absent-minded fool—something his wily old pop was not. At sixty-eight, his Da was shrewd as they came, and Gabriel supposed he must have something to say, although his father had never had much difficulty in speaking his mind. It wasn’t long before he peeped into the room again, and this time he entered, carrying a small box. “Busy, son?”

Gabriel eyed his father curiously. It didn’t take a mastermind to deduce he was not. “No,” he answered anyway.

“Good. Very good.” His father approached the desk with his strange little box, and as Gabriel watched him, he thought for the first time that his father appeared old. His mother’s death had aged him, truly, but somehow, in the space of these past few days, he seemed... wizened. He didn’t speak, nor did Gabriel, as he watched his father place the small carton on the desk beside him. But concern for his father’s health kept Gabriel’s attention from the box for the moment.

He sat up, withdrawing the cheroot from between his teeth. And it was only then that he noticed the folded parchment clutched in his father’s fist. His gaze settled on that and somehow, intuitively, he understood the box’s contents must be the source of his father’s agitation.

After a moment, his father pushed the parchment across Gabriel’s desk, then sat in a facing chair.

“What is it?”

“Open it.”

Setting the cheroot down in the ashtray, Gabriel did as his father requested, lifting it and unfolding the parchment carefully. The date marked was only five days past, the scribble unfamiliar. He meant to turn the paper over to locate a signature, but his father shot up from his chair and prevented him with a hand. “Read it, Gabriel,” he said sternly.

Gabriel’s brows drew together as he turned the paper back over to begin.

“Dearest Mr. Smith,” he began aloud. “I realize it has been some time since our previous correspondence…”

He lapsed into silence as he continued, the tone of the letter becoming painfully familiar.

I am certain I don’t know why I am writing to you with this dilemma, dear sir, but you have ever been so inclined to listen to my ravings. Do you remember all those hours I rambled on whilst you tended my father’s roses? I must have worn your patience quite thin, and yet you listened so mindfully, imparting now and again such wonderful jewels of wisdom. Did I ever thank you properly?

Brows furrowed, Gabriel peered up from the letter, eyeing his father with some bewilderment. He wasn’t certain he wished to continue, but curiosity got the better of him and he continued reading, his heartbeat quickening.

It seems, once again, I must find myself babbling, albeit on paper—though I do hope you’ll bear with me. Dear me, how to begin... From the beginning, I must suppose. By the time you read this I will most likely be wed—not that I wish to, but it seems I’ve no choice. Already, I’ve written my agent with the terms, and he is conducting a rather unconventional search on my behalf—for a husband, you see...