He needed Woodbine /now/.
He had a sudden image of Norman as lord of the manor there – with Caroline as its lady. And their children roaring through the house and romping in the park instead of Toby. It was a painful image. Woodbine was /his home/.
Marriage really was the only option open to him, then. But there was no time in which to choose a bride with any care to make sure he had picked someone who would not drive him to distraction within a fortnight – or, to be fair, someone /he/ would not drive to distraction. There was only time to grab whomever he could find. /If/ there was time even for that.
He could hardly walk up to the first lady he saw at the first ball he attended and ask her to marry him. Could he? And even /if/ he did, and /if/ for some strangely peculiar reason she said yes, he would still have her family to persuade.
It simply could not be done.
Except that failure was not an option.
She would have to be someone very young and biddable. Someone whose parents would be only too glad to bag a future marquess for their daughter, scandalous reputation be damned. Some cit's daughter, perhaps – no, she would not be acceptable to his grandfather. Some impoverished gentleman's daughter, then. Someone plain of face and figure.
Duncan felt himself break out in a cold sweat as he stepped out onto the square.
Or someone… But of course, it /was/ spring, was it not? The time of the Season in London? The time of the great marriage mart, when ladies came to town with the express purpose of finding themselves a husband? And notoriety aside, he was the Earl of Sheringford, even if it /was/ just a courtesy title and essentially meaningless in itself. He was also the heir to a marquess's very real title and properties and fortune – and the incumbent was eighty years old, or would be in sixteen days' time.