One

They were twits—foolish, fashionable, and frivolous.

Reggie Carmarthen stood in Hyde Park beyond the end of Rotten Row, and studied the tonnish females currently gathered about the Avenue with a distinctly jaundiced eye. Especially the younger ladies, those desirous of finding a husband.

Their shrill laughter reached him. The ton was drifting back to the capital for the September and October round of balls and parties. In and about their mamas' coaches lined up along the carriageway, the unmarried young ladies chatted avidly, exchanging the latest news, every one of them hoping, soon, to feature in the latest story. Sun glanced off artfully arranged curls or was deflected by fringed parasols. The breeze flirted with full skirts, teasing the myriad ruffles currently in vogue.

Fashions had changed over the last ten years, but little else had—he felt not the slightest wish to marry any one of the young things parading in the morning sunshine.

With an inward humph, he swung away and determinedly strolled west across the lawns, leaving the fashionable horde behind.

Despite his antipathy, he had to think of marrying. He was thirty-two. His mother had dropped hints, increasingly pointed ones, over the past decade, but she knew she could push him only so far—after a few failed attempts, she'd refrained from pressing specific young ladies on him. This morning, however, the dam of her patience had broken, ruptured by the news of his great-uncle's failing health.

His great-uncle was the Earl of Carlisle; his father, Herbert Carmarthen, presently Viscount Northcote, was the earl's heir. Which meant he, Reggie, would, on his uncle's death and his father's accession to the earldom, step up to his father's present title.

Those facts were widely known, yet waking one morning to find himself Northcote was guaranteed, as his mother had waspishly informed him that morning, to focus the attention of every last matchmaking mama on him.

He could either exercise his prerogative and select a wife forthwith, or be inundated with candidates.

Reaching the carriageway that separated Hyde Park from Kensington Gardens, he paused. The looming threat filled his mind. Crossing the gravel, he walked into the heavily shaded walks of the gardens; in the less fashionable area there were only a few nursemaids and matrons quietly strolling.

The idea of marriage had gradually been gaining ground in his conscious mind. Visits, summer and winter, to old friends like the Fulbridges and the Ashfords were largely to blame—impossible not to notice the satisfaction, the stability, the strength that successful marriage wrought. The Cynster twins, now Amanda Fulbridge and Amelia Ashford, had been his closest friends from childhood and had remained so through the years; the Cynster family in all its various branches numbered among his parents's closest acquaintances. If ever there was a case to be made for marriage, the Cynsters as a group exemplified all that was best, all that could be achieved in that sphere.

Other friends, too, had succumbed; most were quite contented now, even if that had not been their initial expectation. A few male friends remained bachelors, yet the companionship and activites they shared no longer satisfied as once they had.

Marriage.

His mother was right—it was time he took the plunge. And far better to make the choice himself rather than have it thrust upon him.

He was naturally inclined to laissez-faire—to leaving well enough alone—yet in this case letting matters slide was not an option; to simply stand waiting and let the matchmaking mamas have at him would be the action of a lunatic.

He had to make up his mind and act swiftly.

So whom should he marry? In which direction should he look?

What he had to offer was easily catalogued—a family ranked within the haut ton, sufficient wealth to make actual amounts of no account, and ultimately the earldom and all that meant. He possessed an even temperament, was not given to excess in any sphere, was experienced and assured in all tonnish matters, and was handsome enough—admittedly not the sort who drew eyes or stood out in a crowd, yet the ladies with whom he'd shared liaisons over the years had never complained.

His lips twisted wryly. He suspected his quiet, unassuming handsomeness was viewed as less threatening by many ladies, in some cases as less in competition with their own beauty. Regardless, he was content with his appearance, confident in it.

So what of the lady he would wed? An infinitely more difficult question. He hadn't met her, or any like her, yet. He felt not the slightest connection—physical, intellectual, or emotional—with the young things paraded by their mamas through the ballrooms, the silly, giggling horde from which society would expect him to make his choice.

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