“Might I suggest you sleep on this wild idea of yours? Rested, I think you might see things differently.”

“I will not,” he said stubbornly, twisting to drape one arm over the back of the chair, a pose that was sultry in its sheer artlessness. “I’ve thought it through. There are so many reasons why we would be perfect for one another.”

She snorted. “Gray, you have no notion of how wrong you are.”

“Hear me out, Pel. I need a wife.”

“I do not need a husband.”

“Are you certain about that?” he asked, arching a brow at her. “I think you do.”

Isabel crossed her arms, and settled into the back of the chaise. Whether he was insane or not, he was interesting. “Oh?”

“Think on it. I know you grow rather fond of your paramours, but you have to dismiss them eventually, and not due to boredom. You are not that type of woman. No, you have to release them because they fall in love with you, and then want more. You refuse to take married men to your bed, so all of your lovers are free and they all wish to marry you.” He paused. “But if you were already married…” Gray let his words hang in the air.

She stared at him. And then blinked. “What the devil do you gain out of such a marriage?”

“I gain a great deal, Pel. A great deal. I would be free of the marriage-minded debutantes, my mistresses would understand that they will receive no more from me, my mother-” He shuddered. “My mother would cease presenting marital prospects to me, and I shall have a wife who is not only charming and likeable, but one who doesn’t have any foolish notions of love and commitment and fidelity.”

For some strange, unaccountable reason, Isabel found herself liking Lord Grayson. Unlike Pelham, Gray wasn’t filling some poor child’s head with declarations of undying love and devotion. He wasn’t making a marital bargain with a girl who might grow to love him and be hurt by his indiscretions. And he was thrilled to have a bastard, which led her to believe he intended to provide for it.