Charles’s recital died away. Gyles raised a brow. “What?”

Charles regarded him speculatively, then seemed to come to some decision. “For the past year, Francesca has been actively looking for a husband. It was at her request I solicited the help of Lady Willingdon.”

“And has she met anyone she considers suitable?”

“No. Indeed, I believe she’s quite despondent over finding any suitable prospect locally.”

Gyles regarded Charles steadily. “Indelicate question though it is, do you think your niece might find me suitable?”

Charles’s brief smile was wry. “From all I’ve ever heard, if you wished her to find you suitable, she would. You could sweep any naive young lady off her feet.”

Gyles’s smile mirrored Charles’s. “Unfortunately, in this case, using those particular talents might prove counterproductive. I want an amenable bride, not a besotted one.”

“True.”

Gyles considered Charles, then stretched out his legs and crossed his booted ankles. “Charles, I’m going to place you in an invidious position and claim the right of help you owe me as head of the family. Do you know of any reason that would argue against making Francesca Rawlings the next Countess of Chillingworth?”

“None. Absolutely none.” Charles returned his regard steadily. “Francesca would fill the position to the admiration of all the family.”

Gyles held his gaze a moment longer, then nodded. “Very well.” He felt as if a vise had released from about his chest. “In that case, I’d like to make a formal offer for your niece’s hand.”