“I would not disgrace a woman I loved that way, but I have no intention of acquiring a wife for any romantic purposes whatsoever.”

“Then how are you going to get your heirs on the girl?” Val shot back. “Your temperament is such that you at least like the females you bed in such quantity, Nicholas. You aren’t capable of treating a woman coldly, and wives, I am told, have a habit of entangling themselves in a man’s life.”

“I appreciate women, Val,” Nick said, but he was fatigued of the topic, of the night, and of much else in life. “That is not the same thing at all as loving one woman.”

“So refine your tastes,” Val suggested gently. “I know the issue is a sore one, but to see you attempting a calculating approach to your bride search rankles exceedingly.”

Rankle—such a delicate term for unbridled loathing. Rather than endure more interrogation, Nick remained silent until the coach rocked to a halt.

“After you.” The fewer people in the coach when Nick rose, the more room he had to maneuver. Val obligingly hopped out of the coach and waited for Nick under the porte cochere.

“You were going to finish your thought, Nicholas.”

“I am going to listen to you play me a lullaby,” Nick informed him, “while we both get sentimental over some of my best brandy.”

“Of course. My very thoughts, but, Nick?”

“Hmm?” Nick passed off hat, cape, gloves, and cane to a footman, and Val waited until they were again alone to continue.

“You should marry only for love,” Val said, oddly serious. “Another man, even I, might be able to carry off the typical cordial war that passes for a Society marriage, but it will destroy you to make such a compromise.”

Nick settled an arm around his friend’s shoulders and steered him toward the cozy confines of the family parlor. “Valentine, you are a dear man, with artistic sensibilities and a paucity of single brothers. Spare me your pronouncements about matrimony until the reality looms a little closer to your own experience, hmm? There’s a lad. Tell me, how many bottles will it take before you play me some of that stuff you make up on the spot but don’t write down? You’ve a name for it.”

“Improvisation,” Val said, letting Nick lead him toward the Broadwood. “Because you’re being contrary and stubborn, you’ll get only Scarlatti from me tonight.”

“Scarlatti it is.” Nick signaled his butler for an extra bottle of the good stuff anyway.

“Darius?” Lady Leah Lindsey stifled a yawn as the horses swung into a trot.

“Hmm?” Darius Lindsey was not so polite and exercised a brother’s prerogative by yawning audibly and rolling his neck.

“What do you know of Viscount Reston?” Leah asked, glad for the lack of light in the coach and for a brother who would join her on the forward-facing seat.

“I know he’s quite, quite tall, and in vulgarly good physical condition.” Darius peered at her with a brother’s inconvenient curiosity. “Built like a Viking, and blond like one.”

“So you’ve seen him. But what do you know of him?”

“He’s not married,” Darius said musingly, “and a certain type of woman lines up to offer him her wares, according to gossip. Some say he was rusticating for the past few years. Others say he was taking the cure for years of mischief. He has friends in odd places, high and low, and he’s rumored to be looking for a bride, because old Bellefonte is approaching his last prayers. He doesn’t gamble to excess, and there’s no mention of public displays of temper or inebriation. Lots of speculation about the man, but little real fact.”

Leah said nothing, while she privately concluded Reston must be a decent enough fellow, because as she well knew, vices were pounced upon and dissected by the gossips without mercy.

“Finances?” Leah asked, thinking of Reston’s casual offer to buy up Hellerington’s markers.

“Finances…” Darius tipped back his head to rest on the squabs—he was in demand as dancing partner, and the night had no doubt been long for him. “Word when we left for Italy was that Bellefonte was all but rolled up, and with all those daughters to launch, the gossip was probably accurate. Reston is rumored to have taken over the reins and set things to rights rather quickly. He isn’t seen to be in trade, so one wonders how he’s done it.”

“You could ask him,” Leah said, sinking down a little more against the cushions.

“I could.” Darius’s tone was sardonic. “Just sidle up to a man who could snap my neck with his bare hands and ask how he’s pulled his family out of dun territory with no one the wiser. Do you comprehend what that question implies?”

Smuggling, though an older brother would turn that admission into even more of a scold. “I do, though I would not for anything risk my brothers. Still, it would be nice to know.” Nice, too, to have an excuse to converse with the man again—to kiss him again.

The thought was useless—also harmless, because there would be no opportunity to indulge it.

Darius propped a foot on the opposite seat. “So you ask him. He’s looking for a bride, you’re available, and an acquaintance between you would not be so unusual, at least in proper social settings. I’ve been introduced to him, so I can see to the proprieties.”

“You said he’s a womanizer. Is that whom you want me consorting with?”

Darius’s tone became lazy. “My dear, I am a womanizer. Every man who can get away with it, practically, is a womanizer. You ladies inspire us to it.”

“Blaming the women, Darius?” Leah’s tone was cool.

“Oh, now.” Darius looped an arm across her shoulders. “Hellerington has rattled you. He’s rattled me, too. I cannot bear to think of you with that man, Leah.”

“Then don’t think of it,” she said, letting her head rest on his shoulder. Of all the considerations her brothers showed her, this one—this casual affection—meant the most. She’d felt cast out, judged, unclean, and unforgivably stupid as a younger woman, and Society had done its cruel best to reinforce her opinion. Her brothers, though, had stood by her, and eventually the scandal had been faced down.

There were good men in the world, Leah reassured herself. Her brothers were good men.

Lord Reston… was a puzzle. His kiss lingered in Leah’s memory like a bonfire on a hill, a bright, riveting, but isolated event that drew her attention even while she should be figuring out how to tolerate a life as Lady Hellerington.

Reston was kind. She’d felt it in his touch, heard it in his voice, tasted it in his kiss and in the way he’d assumed an unthreatening, companionable honesty with her from the first moment. He was also stunningly, spectacularly masculine in that kindness. He wore some kind of Eastern scent, sturdy like sandalwood but sweetened with an exotic note of spices. His hands had been gentle, for all their size, but they’d also been undeniably knowing.

So he was kind, handsome, and single, but he was also—and most especially—wrong for her.

He would never take from a woman by plunder. He’d seduce instead, and make a lady grateful for the privilege of giving to him what he had not earned and would not treasure past a fleeting moment.

Nick punched his pillow, the strains of Val’s soft music drifting to him through the darkness. Val played like this only when he was alone with a good instrument, the music flowing up from his soul, out across the keys, and off into the night air, never to be heard again. Nick was in awe of such a gift, such an endless flow of creativity and sheer beauty from inside one generally quiet man.

And if there was a price for such talent, Nick hadn’t yet puzzled it out. Usually, when Val conjured lullabies, sleep came to heel like a biddable spaniel.

Tonight, though, Nick was preoccupied with a single kiss.