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“If I can find the right lady, that is.” It was rather a big if, matrimonially speaking. Aristocrats did not, for the most part, marry for love, especially dukes. They married for titles, money and power.
Was it any wonder so few of them were happy?
He didn’t want that for himself. “I don’t wish to marry for convenience, Rowan, or for money, or noble lineage. I understand it’s expected of me to do so, but in my opinion there is only one reason a gentleman—or a lady, for that matter—should consider marriage.”
“What reason, Your Grace?”
“Love, Rowan. Love, of course.”
His parents had married for love. Since the day they’d met, they’d been utterly enamored of each other. His father had been heartbroken when his mother had died unexpectedly from an outbreak of scarlet fever. He’d rallied for Gabriel’s and James’s sakes, but he’d never been the same again.
A man couldn’t grow up surrounded by such a love as that, and not long for the same love for himself. His brother had never said so, but he suspected James had never wed because he hadn’t yet fallen in love.
Now he’d never have the chance.
James was gone. Gabriel was the last of his family, and the long, distinguished history of the Hawthorne dukedom rested on his shoulders.
He must marry. It was his duty to produce an heir.
It was a heavy responsibility, and one that had been weighing on him since he’d returned to Scotland, but it had taken on a new urgency since Miss Harley wandered into his conservatory and started quizzing him about honeybees.
He hardly knew her, yet somehow, that didn’t matter.
He knew enough. After all, he’d spent a full half hour with her this afternoon, and he hadn’t stuttered, or spilled anything, or maimed her in any way.
That must mean something, surely?
But he wouldn’t confide in Rowan yet. Not about this. For all his gentlemanliness, Rowan was a practical sort. He’d panic if Gab riel declared he’d already chosen his bride after only a single day.
“And has Your Grace fallen in love over the course of the afternoon?”
“I see that sly grin, Rowan. You’re not nearly as subtle as you imagine you are. I have not fallen in love this afternoon, no.”
At least, he didn’t think so, but then what did he know about love?
Not a blessed thing.
He knew only that he was intrigued by Miss Harley, more intrigued than he could ever recall being with any lady.
To be fair, he hadn’t yet met any of the young ladies who’d come for the house party. No doubt some of them were perfectly lovely, but they’d all come to Hawthorne Castle for one reason.
To marry a duke.
But not Miss Harley. She didn’t care for the Duke of Hawthorne. She’d said so herself.
“Forgive me, Your Grace, but if I may be so bold, what has prompted this sudden disinclination to appear as the Duke of Hawthorne?”
Gabriel dropped onto the settee with a sigh. How to make Rowan understand? A pretend duke sounded daft, even to him. But he couldn’t ask such a great favor from Rowan while refusing to explain himself.
Rowan deserved to know the truth.
“I want a love match, Rowan, like my parents had. I daresay that makes me rather foolish. There are, I think, very few dukes who marry for love.”
Good Lord, what a depressing thought. He let out another sigh.
“It’s not foolish at all, Your Grace. Everyone wishes for true love.”
“I suppose they do, yes, but only a lucky few ever seem to find it.” He plucked up a pillow, avoiding Rowan’s gaze as he toyed with the fringe. “If I meet our guests as the duke, how will I ever know for certain if I’m loved for myself, or only tolerated by a lady who merely wishes to become a duchess?”
