Spreading out a fresh piece of paper he sharpened his quill and wrote down what he was looking for in a bride.

1. Impeccable pedigree.

2. Quiet.

3. Not bracket faced.

4. Intelligent.

He scratched his head with the end of his pen lost in thought. The list seemed rather short, was there something else he should add to it? His mouth curved - of course.

5. Tall

6. Prefers country life.

7. Loves children.

There … that should do it. If he found a young woman who fulfilled all his criteria he would offer for her immediately. The sooner he produced the required heir the better, then he could continue his rackety lifestyle without having the family lawyers constantly complaining. He had no intention of living with his wife once his duty was done, his mistress provided him with everything he needed apart from a son. A fleeting image of the lovely, russet haired girl he’d encountered in Norfolk flickered into his head. His enquiries had not produced her name or whereabouts, and he’s been obliged to return to Town a few days later on urgent business matters and had all but forgotten the encounter. He pushed the picture away— she was safely in Norfolk and he must find himself a bride.

*   *   *

Isobel stood beside her cousin waiting to greet the monstrous crush of people invited to their come-out ball. She must remember to bite her tongue and keep any sharp comments to herself even if seriously provoked.

Petunia, a diminutive, fair-haired girl, as pretty as a cherub and with a sweet nature to match, would have no such difficulty. Isobel felt like an ungainly beanpole at her side. With her hair piled up in this ridiculous fashion on top of her head it added a further few inches. Good grief! Even her evening slippers had heels upon them. She would be staring over the heads of most of the gentlemen present and that would surely be enough to put them off before they’d even spoken to her.