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“An heiress ain’t so bad, Rob,” said Jerome DeVere, the Marquess of Ravenshaw, one elegantly booted foot crossed over his knee. “Provided she’s pretty of course!” Ravenshaw added with a rakish smile.

That is easy for him to say. He doesn’t have to marry the damned chit, whoever she proves to be.

As always, the marquess’s attire was immaculate. His black hair was sleek as a groomed horse, and his devastatingly handsome face was perfectly shaved.

“Pretty isn’t going to be a criterion,” Robert said gloomily.

He was looking for something beyond skin-deep beauty and would be lucky to find someone who didn’t repulse him utterly, as he was particular in his tastes.

Am I too particular? A pang in his chest reminded him of what he did want, a wife he could love with his whole heart.

The perfect woman I have never met. And never will now. ..

“Marrying for love’s not all it’s cracked up to be,” remarked Emrys Fitzgerald, Viscount Ashford, with a rueful grimace, finishing his glass of red wine and refilling it.

He was the only one of the four of them who was married.

Robert was surprised by the comment; to his knowledge Ashford’s marriage was a happy one.

He and his wife Caroline had three children, the eldest of which was eight or thereabouts.

Robert made a mental note to follow up on this hint of marital discord.

Ashford’s match had been the gold standard in his mind for a love match—outside of his parents of course.

It was disturbing to think things might not be as smooth sailing as they had always appeared to be.

By contrast with Ravenshaw, Ashford was disheveled, his brown hair was too long to be fashionable, his jaw sported a faint stubble.

His clothes were loose fitting with a stain on his waistcoat, and his boots were in sore need of a shine.

In short, he looked like something the cat had dragged in, which was nothing unusual.

He’d never been a good-looking man, and he was now slipping into comfortable middle age, with a slight paunch developing round his middle.

“Well, they won’t haul you off to the fleet.

You’re a bloody duke!” said Deodonatus Kininmounth, the Earl of Pendrell.

Inspecting his own glass and finding it empty, he reached for the decanter on the table and absently refilled Robert’s glass while he was at it.

Pendrell was the biggest of the four men, with shoulders like an ox and a muscular physique that topped out at over six foot three.

He was built on similar lines to Robert’s brother Hereward, although Pendrell was taller.

Combined with his height and bulk, his hawkish features made him somewhat intimidating.

And to add to his striking appearance, his head was covered in a shock of bright red hair, and his skin was freckled from long hours in the sun on some dig or other.

The man was obsessed with antiquities and not known for his social address.

He became quite tongue-tied in the presence of females.

Robert waved a hand dismissively. “No, but I’m damned sick of not being able to pay my debts and trying to balance the books.

My esteemed papa was not a good steward, I am sorry to say, and I’m paying the price for it now.

Whichever way I try it, there are more outgoings than incomings.

” He sighed. “The estate has been abused for too long. It requires significant investment to begin showing a profit again, and I can’t raise the ready because everything is bloody entailed.

” He ran a hand through his hair, disturbing his valet’s neat handiwork, and unconsciously created an artistically disheveled look worthy of Byron.

“I’ve tried to get my mother and brothers to practice some economy to no avail, and with three sisters to provide for as well as the boys...” He scrubbed a hand over his face and sighed. God I’m tired. “I’m resigned to my fate, but I don’t have to like it!”

Robert had always envisioned that when he did marry he would do so for love, the kind of passionate, life-long love and devotion his parents had enjoyed.

He had searched for ten years for the deep-soul connection among the debutantes of the ton that he was convinced was possible, but it was to no avail.

He now realized with a sinking heart that he would have to choose a lady based first and foremost on the size of her fortune.

The chance of him finding the love of his life among the ranks of this year’s crop of heiresses was reduced to a very small, if not non-existent, percentage indeed.

“To make it worse, Mama and Ava will arrive soon for Ava’s come out, and the expense doesn’t bear thinking of,” he added with a frustrated sigh.

“My parents dropped a bundle for my sister’s debut,” nodded Ravenshaw. “But she nabbed De Crecy, so it was worth it. Ever thought Lady Ava might solve the problem for you?”

“Damn it, no! I’ll not sacrifice Ava. It’s my lot to solve. Ava shall marry where she chooses.”

He had not confessed his intentions to his family.

He did not plan to tell them that he was bent on making a marriage of convenience.

Instead, he would do his best to convince them he had chosen a bride he loved, even though it wasn’t true.

Or was unlikely to be true, he amended, the small amount of hope in his heart persistent to the last.

“What are the choices this year?” asked Ashford.

“I don’t know. I’m going to Almack’s tomorrow night to find out.

” He swallowed another mouthful of whisky.

“I’ve enlisted Maria Sefton to help me. She and Mama have been thick as thieves for the past twenty-odd years, so I’m hoping I can trust she’ll keep a discreet tongue in her head.

The last thing I want is the ton catching wind of the fact I’m hanging out for a rich wife! ”

The notion still turned his stomach and gave him that strange ache behind his sternum, but he really couldn’t see any way out of it.

“Wish me luck, gentlemen.” His three closest friends raised their glasses to the successful hunt for a suitably endowed bride.

“What ho, chaps!” said a cheery voice, breaking in on Robert’s morose thoughts.

He raised his eyes from the fire to focus on the beaming expression of Reynard Fairbanks, 6th Earl of Lannister.

Tall and loose-limbed, with blonde hair and blue eyes, Lannister had the sort of devilish good looks that seemed to drive women wild.

“Care for a game of cards?” he offered. “Greathouse and I were looking for a table. Want to join us?”

Lannister indicated his companion, Fabian Lidcombe, Baron Greathouse. Greathouse was of a different stamp altogether, still dashingly handsome, but being of only medium height, with brown hair and dark, dreamy eyes, the two together made a clear contrast.

Pendrell rose to his great height, his shock of red hair falling into his eyes. “Not for me, thank you. I’ve a paper to finish editing for the Quarterly Journal. All the best tomorrow, Rob. Good night, gentlemen.” He gave a short bow and strode away.

Ashford, who was a close friend of Greathouse, rose and tugged his ill-fitting coat into order. “Not tonight, Fabian, I’d best be getting home. Caro had a headache and stayed in tonight.”

“I’m sorry to hear that, Emrys,” said Greathouse with a moue of sympathy. “Do give her my regards. I hope she feels better in the morning.”

Ashford nodded. “Thank you, I will. Rob, you want to play?”

Robert put down his glass and rose. “No, I’ll go with you.”

“Which leaves Ravenshaw. Come on, man—say you will play!” coaxed Lannister.

“I wouldn’t, Ravenshaw. He wants to fleece you!” warned Robert. Lannister’s pockets were notoriously to let. The man lived hand to mouth on the turn of a card, a vice his youngest brother Kenrick seemed to share, one Rick had inherited from their sire. Another drain on the Layne finances.

“Let him try,” said the marquess rising and shucking his elegant cuffs. If he weren’t such an athlete, he’d be taken for a dandy, the care he expended on his wardrobe.

The two groups of men parted, and Robert and Ashford made their way out into the street, collecting their coats and hats on the way.

“Sorry to hear Caro’s not feeling well,” said Robert as they strode out.

It was a fine night with a half-moon giving some light to supplement the streetlamps. “Nothing serious I trust?”

“No, just one of those female things, I think. Care to share a hack?” he asked.

“Why not?”

Ashford flagged down a hackney coach, and when he had given the directions—Berkeley Square then Cavendish—and they were settled against the leather squabs, Robert cleared his throat and asked delicately, “Everything all right between you and Caro?”

Ashford raised his brows. “Yes, why?”

“Just your comment earlier . . .”

Ashford lounged on his side of the coach as the carriage swung round a corner and said carelessly, “Oh, that? When you’ve been married as long as I have, you learn that there are good days and not so good days. Doesn’t mean there’s anything seriously wrong.”

Robert nodded thoughtfully. “You’re my pattern for the perfect marriage, old chap. I’ve always wanted what you have.”

His friend smiled. “I was lucky, I’ll admit. Prettiest girl of the season and she said yes to me!”

Robert chuckled. “I recall! You snatched her right out from under Everly’s nose. All the clubs had short odds on him winning her hand. Just goes to show the power of sincerity and a good heart. There’s not a better man in London than you, my friend. I’m glad Caro had the sense to see it.”

Ashford shook his head at the compliment; he was inordinately modest. “You’ve had the pick of the crop of every season for the past ten years, Rob. Yet you’ve not found what you’re looking for. Are you setting the bar too high?”

“Why, because I want my own Caro?” He frowned. “I just want a woman I can give myself to wholeheartedly, who will love me, not my title and position. I didn’t expect it to be so dashed difficult.”

Ashford coughed and Robert looked at him suspiciously. “What?”

Ashford hesitated.

“Out with it, man. You’re my friend. If you can’t be honest with me, who can?”

“Very well. If you want a woman who will love you for who you are, perhaps you should show her more of your private self. There’s a deal of difference between the Duke of Troubridge and Robert Layne.”

“Being a duke is part of who I am. I can’t change that.”

“No, but Robert is a darn sight more approachable than the duke.”

Robert chewed that over. “I’m not sure I fully understand, but I’ll think about it. Here’s my stop. All the best to Caro,” he said, getting out of the cab and paying the jarvey for his share of the ride.

He ran up the steps of his four-story London townhouse in Berkeley Square with a thoughtful frown on his brow. Perhaps there is something to Emrys’s words. But it is probably moot anyway, because I am about to embark on the search for a bride who is willing to trade her wealth for my title.

For a moment he wished he could eschew the title and all its trappings and find the woman he wanted as a commoner.

But that was a fairy tale, and this was real life.

He needed a wealthy wife and quickly if he was to be able to continue to provide for his family and all the retainers who relied upon him.

They were his priority, not his selfish desires.

He needed to keep reminding himself of that.