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He watched for the first signs of spring, which began with a gradual warming of the air as the first snowdrops pushed up through the grass in the garden and beside the river that ran through his property from the north. Snowdrops were followed by primroses and then wild daffodils, which grew in profusion this year. Birds sang from among the fresh green leaves with which the bare tree branches had clothed themselves. He rarely saw those birds, but he could almost imagine they were happy, though he must be careful about attributing human feelings to nonhuman beings. Certainly, though, they made him feel happy.

And hopeful.

He spent time in consultation with his gardeners and the steward of his farms rather than just giving the nod of approval to whatever plans they laid before him, as he usually did. He examined the account books too with a determination to understand the workings of his properties. His determination to find a bride this year had made him aware too of his other responsibilities as his father’s heir. When he had left Redcliffe behind after his father’s marriage, he had also abdicated those duties, which he had been learning under the tutelage of his cousin Oliver. He ought not to have done that. He really had lived a life of essential idleness since, though he had persuaded himself that his studies were his occupation. He actually enjoyed his new involvement in this smaller property.

During the months following Christmas, he found himself more content and less lonely than he had been before. But if he wished to take full responsibility for his life as heir to Redcliffe and all that life would entail, then of course there was that other step he must take. It was his duty to marry and set up his nursery. But not just duty. He thought of how at Christmas the Cunningham home had teemed with children, whom he ought to have found a severe annoyance but had not, and he knew that he very much wanted a family of his own. Even more than just the children, though, he wanted…No, correct that. He needed a wife. A companion and friend and lover. And even more than that.

Heart of his heart.

The extravagance of the sudden thought slightly embarrassed him.

He went to London after Easter, when members of the ton were beginning to gather for the spring session of Parliament and the social Season that accompanied it with a few months of entertainments in dizzying abundance and endless variety, ranging from assemblies to garden parties to balls to soirees to Venetian breakfasts to concerts and theater and opera performances, to name but a few. Hostesses planned ever more imaginative and elaborate spectacles in order to outdo one another. There could be no more satisfactory comment the day after a ball that had taken at least a month to plan and a minor fortune to finance than that it had been a sad squeeze.

Bertrand took up residence in his usual bachelor rooms and visited his usual male haunts, including White’s Club, Tattersall’s, and Jackson’s boxing saloon. He met old friends and acquaintances. He called upon his father and Viola, who were making one of their rare appearances in London because, his father explained with a pained expression, if he did not call upon his tailor soon, his coats were going to expire of old age and he would have no choice but to go about in his shirtsleeves.

“And I am going to visit the most fashionable modiste I can find, Bertrand,” Viola said, “just because.”

He called too upon other family members who were in town—the Netherbys, the Riverdales, the Hodgeses, the Molenors, and the Dirksons to complete the triumvirate of aunts, for of course Louise, Dowager Duchess of Netherby, had come to town with Avery and Anna.

Owen Ware found Bertrand on the day following his arrival, and the two of them often went about together or in a group with other friends. Owen suggested he and Bertrand call sometime upon Winifred in the village south of the Thames where she and Nicholas had a cottage.

“Do not be misled by the name, though,” Owen said. “It is a cottage rather as my mother’s is at Ravenswood. It is thatched and looks rustic and undeniably picturesque, but it would actually be more accurate to describe it as a modest manor.”

Bertrand was perfectly agreeable, as he had already intended to take a ride out there one day. But as he drew breath to suggest a particular day, Owen added that his sister was currently staying there with Winnie and Nicholas. Stephanie, that was.

Stephanie disliked the Season, Bertrand remembered, and was unlikely to want to come into London for any of the entertainments it had to offer. Winnie rarely came either. She had told him that in one of her letters. She was warmly attached to her new home and the village in which it was situated. She had welcoming neighbors and had made several good friends there and was involved in a number of activities, all of which kept her busy and made her happy. Nicholas had made friends there too. It was unlikely, then, Bertrand decided, that he would run into Stephanie at any of the parties and such that he attended. It was a relief, he had to admit, despite the near amity with which they had parted at Christmas and their agreement to tolerate each other’s company when circumstances brought them together, as they were bound to do from time to time. He would rather that not be too often, however. Not yet at least. He needed to concentrate upon his search for a bride.

He made a lame excuse to Owen and postponed the visit until later. Perhaps she would not stay long.

He attended a number of assemblies and balls and danced every set at the latter—with a different partner each time. Entirely predictably, word quickly spread that at last Bertrand Lamarr, Viscount Watley, had come to the marriage mart to shop. For years past he had dampened speculation by being very sparing with the attentions he paid all the young hopefuls who had come to find husbands. This year, however, he could not afford any excessive caution. He soon felt positively besieged as a result, especially if he happened to solicit the hand of one dancing partner for the second ball in a row, and sometimes even a third.

But it had to be done. A suitable wife was not going to materialize simply because he wished it. There was work to do.

“Looking for a leg shackle, are you, Bert?” Owen asked one night as they withdrew to a quiet card party after leaving a particularly crowded ballroom somewhat early. “You are likely to get one, whether you are looking or not, if you ask Miss Easton to dance one more time. Her mama probably already has the notice of your betrothal written up for the Gazette and just waiting to be sent.”

“The thing is,” Bertrand said, “that the time seems to have come. I am almost thirty, and I have a duty to perform. I am my father’s only heir, not counting my uncle André.”

“Hmm,” Owen said. “No offense, Bert, but I can see why you would not wish to count him.”

André Lamarr, the Marquess of Dorchester’s younger brother, was an amiable drinker and a habitual and generally unlucky gambler whose pockets were always to let. It was impossible not to be fond of him. But…Well, it was necessary for Bertrand to produce sons of his own, and the sooner the better.

“I did think last summer and again at Christmas that perhaps…Steph?” Owen said.

“No,” Bertrand said. “And I do assure you Lady Stephanie would give the same answer, Owen. We are friends. That is all.”

“Well then,” Owen said, “I suppose Miss Easton is as good as anyone.”

It was not a ringing endorsement, but yes, she was. She was pretty without being one of the handful of acclaimed beauties. She was quiet without being either mute or insipid. She knew how to converse on any subject presented to her, and she knew how to listen. She dressed fashionably but not to any extreme. She smiled frequently with what looked to be genuine interest or pleasure. She seemed to like Bertrand, though she never fawned over him. Nor did her mother, who seemed to be a sensible lady. Mothers, when they had a daughter to marry off, could be aggressive abominations.

Bertrand took the unprecedented step of calling at the Easton house on Portland Place one afternoon when he knew Mrs. Easton was hosting an at-home. He was relieved to discover when he was announced that he was not the only man present. Miss Easton was eligible for more than just her looks and pleasant disposition, of course, for her father was said to be in possession of a solid fortune and sound lineage, and her mother was the granddaughter of a baronet. Bertrand presented posies to both mother and daughter, stayed the regulation half hour, conversed with the two ladies and with fellow guests, and invited Miss Easton as he was leaving to drive with him in Hyde Park the following afternoon at the fashionable hour.

He had, he realized, taken one rather large step closer to making a declaration, especially as his invitation had been heard by seven or eight people in addition to the Easton ladies. Miss Easton had thanked him, and her mother had smiled graciously at him.

At the appointed time the following day, Bertrand drove Miss Easton in his curricle about the fashionable circuit in Hyde Park, stopping frequently to hail acquaintances and exchange pleasantries with them while, he did not doubt, all the gossips among them took note of the fact that the elusive Viscount Watley was escorting the very pretty Miss Ruby Easton. Bertrand also did not doubt that they would be a topic of speculation in fashionable drawing rooms throughout London this evening. If he did not wish to pursue the acquaintance further, he would have to cut off his attentions soon, before it was too late. But he found her pleasant company. He liked her and even thought that maybe…Well, perhaps he might come to feel an affection for her.

But dash it all, he felt no…no spark of real attraction.

Did she feel any? He somehow doubted it even though she always smiled with what seemed like genuine pleasure in his company. He was pretty sure she liked him, however.