
This was one devil of a nasty coil.
How the deuce was he to find a bride and marry her all within fifteen days? And a respectable lady of good /ton/ to boot – his grandfather, he knew, would accept no less. No respectable lady would touch him with a twenty-foot oar – not once she knew his infamous story, anyway. And soon enough the fact that he was back would spread all over London – even if it had not already done so.
Besides all of which, he had no wish /whatsoever/ to marry. He had only recently been freed from a lengthy connection that he had found tiresome, to say the least – though poor Laura had /not/ gone unmourned.
He wanted to enjoy his newfound freedom alone, at least for a few years.
Besides, and far more important, there was a purely practical reason why a wife would be a severe encumbrance. No respectable lady would tolerate the presence of an illegitimate child in her home – or even a strong attachment between her husband and his gardener's presumably legitimate grandson. And how would he ever be able to mask that attachment?
It was unthinkable.
Besides, Toby, however well he had been coached, would not remember all the time to call him /sir/ or /my lord/ instead of /Papa/.
Damn it all!
But marry he must. He needed Woodbine. He needed his home and his roots.
It was true, of course, that eventually he would inherit all his grandfather's properties and vast fortune, /including/ Woodbine Park, which was entailed and could not be given as an outright gift to Norman or anyone else.
