“Chillingworth? Well!” Charles blinked, taking in the resemblance, which rendered any answer to his question superfluous. He recovered quickly. “Welcome, my lord. To what do we owe this pleasure?”

Gyles smiled, and told him.

“Francesca?”

They’d repaired to the privacy of Charles’s study. After seeing Gyles to a comfortable chair, Charles subsided into the one behind his desk. “I’m sorry-I don’t see what interest you might have in Francesca.”

“As to that, I’m not certain, but my… dilemma, shall we say? is common enough. As the head of the family, I’m expected to wed. In my case, it’s something of a necessity, given it’s most seriously necessary I beget myself an heir.” Gyles paused, then asked, “Have you met Osbert Rawlings?”

“Osbert? Is he Henry’s son?” When Gyles nodded, Charles’s expression blanked. “Isn’t he the one who wants to be a poet?”

“He did want to be a poet, yes. Now he is a poet, and that’s infinitely worse.”

“Good lord! Vague, gangly, never knows what to do with his hands?”

“That’s Osbert. You can see why the family are counting on me to do my duty. To do him justice, Osbert himself is terrified I won’t, and he’ll have to step into my shoes.”

“I can imagine. Even as a lad he had limp wool for a backbone.”

“Therefore, having reached the age of thirty-five, I’m engaged in looking about for a wife.”

“And you thought of Francesca?”

“Before we discuss particulars, I wish to make one point clear. I’m looking for an amenable bride willing to engage in an arranged marriage.”

“An arranged…” Charles frowned. “You mean a marriage of convenience?”

Gyles raised his brows. “That always struck me as an oxymoron. How could marriage ever be convenient?”

Charles didn’t smile. “Perhaps you’d better explain what you’re seeking.”

“I wish to contract an arranged marriage with a lady of suitable birth, breeding, and comportment to fill the role of my countess and provide me and the family with the heirs we require.