He might shop at the marriage mart if he chose and expect considerable success. But he was thirty-five years old. These new beauties looked uncomfortably like children to him. Most of them would be seventeen or eighteen.

It really was a little alarming. He was never going to get any younger, was he? And he had never intended to go through life as a single man. When, then, was he going to marry? And, more to the point, whom would he marry?

He had made his prospects somewhat dimmer, of course, when he acquired Ainsley Park a number of years ago and proceeded to populate it with society’s undesirables-vagabonds, thieves, ex-soldiers, the mentally handicapped, prostitutes, unwed mothers and their offspring, and assorted others. Ainsley was a hive of industry and was gratifyingly prosperous after a few years of nothing but expenses-and hard work.

A young wife, however, particularly one of gentle birth, would certainly not appreciate being taken to live among such company and in such a place-and in the dower house to boot. A month or so ago his living room had been commandeered as a nursery for the dolls too tired to keep their eyes open after their tea in the conservatory.

“Let me guess,” Monty said, leaning closer to Constantine. “The one in green?”

He had been staring quite fixedly, Constantine realized, at two young ladies with two stern-looking maids a couple of paces behind them-and all four had noticed. The girls were giggling and preening themselves while the maids were closing the gap to one and a half paces.

“She is the prettier of the two,” Constantine conceded, looking away. “The one in pink has the better figure, though.”

“I wonder which one,” Monty said, “has the richer papa.”

“The Duchess of Dunbarton is back in town,” Stephen said as the three of them moved on. “Looking as lovely as ever. She must be just out of mourning. Shall we go and pay our respects?”