With his active interest in the Cynster investment business together with the distractions of tonnish society, with his sexual conquests and the customary family gatherings to season the whole, his life had been pleasantly full. He’d never seen the need to linger at those balls and parties graced by marriageable young ladies.

Which now left him in the unenviable position of wanting a wife and not having any useful avenue through which to acquire one, not without setting off alarm bells that would resonate throughout the ton. If he was foolish enough to start attending the balls and parties, the fond mamas would instantly perceive he was on the lookout for a bride-and lay siege.

He was the last unmarried male Cynster of his generation.

Stepping up to the top of the earthworks’ outer wall, he paused. The land fell away in a shallow sweep; the path continued to the left, leading to a squat, covered lookout set into the earth wall some fifty yards on.

The view was magnificent. Sunshine winked on the distant sea; the silhouette of the Isle of Wight was distinguishable through a soft summer haze.

He’d seen the view before. He turned to the lookout, and the female presently in it. She was standing at the railing, gazing out to sea. From her stance and stillness, he assumed she hadn’t seen him.

Lips setting, he walked on. He wouldn’t need to give any reason for joining her. For the past decade, he’d treated her with the same insistent protectiveness he applied to all the females of his family; doubtless it was her relationship-the fact she was his brother-in-law Luc’s sister-that dictated how he felt about her despite the lack of blood ties.

To his mind, Portia Ashford was family, his to protect. That much, at least, was unarguable.

What tortuous logic had prompted the gods to decree that a woman needed a man to conceive?