“Perish the thought. But if you must know, and I’m sure Henni will want to, I intend to marry entirely to suit myself. I’m thirty-five, after all. Further denying the inevitable will only make the adjustment more painful-I’m set in my ways as it is.” He rose and held out his hand.

Horace grimaced and gave him his glass. “Devilish business, marriage-take my word for it. Sure it isn’t all these Cynsters marrying that’s niggled you into taking the plunge?”

“That’s where I was today-Somersham. There was a family gathering to show off all the new wives and infants. If I’d needed any demonstration of the validity of your thesis, today would have provided it.”

Refilling their glasses, Gyles pushed aside the prickling presentiment evoked by his old friend Devil Cynster’s latest infernal machination. “Devil and the others elected me an honorary Cynster.” Turning from the tantalus, he handed Horace his glass, then resumed his seat. “I pointed out that while we might share countless characteristics, I’m not, and never will be, a Cynster.”

He would not marry for love. That fate, as he’d assured Devil for years, would never be his.

Every Cynster male seemed unavoidably to succumb, jettisoning rakish careers of legendary proportions for love and the arms of one special lady. There’d been six in the group popularly known as the Bar Cynster, and now all were wed, all exclusively and unswervingly focused on their wives and growing families. If there was, within him, a spark of envy, he made sure it was buried deep. The price they’d paid was not one he could afford.

Horace snorted. “Love matches are the Cynsters’ forte. Seem to be all the rage these days, but take my word for it-an arranged marriage has a lot to recommend it.”

“My thoughts exactly. Earlier this summer I set Waring the task of investigating all the likely candidates to see which, if any, had dower properties that would materially add to the earldom.”