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about what his descendants thought long after he was gone sounded outlandish to Gavin, until he remembered the numerous quips and jibes he and his brothers had made about the ancestors already hanging on Menheim’s walls.
    â€œYou definitely don’t want a petite wife,” his aunt informed him. “Yes, they are attractive bits, but you run a danger of breeding runts. And is that what you want for your sons?”
    Gavin could have replied he just wanted to breed . . . but in truth, he was as picky as his aunt, well, when it came to looks or figure. Imogen was more a stickler for the family bloodlines. The Duke of Marlborough’s niece was not good enough for her. However, the Most Reverend Berk’s family could be traced back to the Conqueror so his oldest daughter had possibilities in Imogen’s eyes. Gavin tried not to stare at her mustache.
    Money was also of little consequence to either of them. Gavin was a very wealthy man.
    Of course, if he could have his choice . . .
    Gavin’s jealous gaze drifted to where his brother Ben stood with Elin. They were very happy in their love. Elin was to have been Gavin’s, even though they hadn’t really known each other. The betrothal had been arranged by their parents more than two decades ago.
    However, Elin had wanted more. She’d wanted a man who loved her with Ben’s devotion and Gavin had reluctantly let her go.
    Now, he found himself on the hunt for—­what? Love? What the devil was that?
    His fate was to marry out of obligation and duty, hence Aunt Imogen’s whispered opinions of each young woman’s assets without respect to their, hmmmm, well, what Gavin and any other male in the room would consider assets .
    At the same time, Gavin had a sense he, like Elin, wanted more. The word “kissable” came to mind, as did the thought of companionship. He longed for a helpmate. Ducal responsibilities wore a man down. Gavin could only bear so much alone—­
    A prickling of awareness tickled the hairs at the nape of his neck. He looked to the door and his gaze centered upon a young woman waiting her turn in the receiving line.
    Woman?
    Goddess was a better description.
    She was not too tall and not too petite but exactly right.
    Her eyes were a sparkling blue, as clear as pieces of cut glass. Her hair was so blond it was close to white, speaking to some Viking forebearer, and her brows were dark, expressive. They added character to a face that would have been otherwise bland in its perfection. Her gown was a silvery white. The cut simply, but effectively, emphasized the womanly curves of some of the best assets Gavin had ever seen.
    She was also undeniably kissable. Her lips were full and pink and, he was certain, very sweet.
    Gavin’s mouth went dry. His knees turned weak and every male part of him came to ­attention.
    For the first time in his life, he had the urge to toss aside all veneer of civilization, throw this woman over his shoulder, and carry her off to his bed.
    Aunt Imogen noticed the direction of his ­interest and her voice purred with satisfaction as she confided, “ She is the one I wanted you to ­particularly meet. The late Lord Dearne’s only child, Lady Charlene.”
    â€œDearne? The profligate?”
    â€œAnd buried years ago for his sins. His wife quickly followed him into death. They left her a penniless orphan. However, her bloodlines are the purest in the realm. Her stock is hardy. Look at the hips on that child. She will bear many sons.”
    Gavin couldn’t stop staring at her hips or any other part of her. “And the portraits?”
    â€œWill be spectacular,” Imogen promised.
    And then Lady Charlene stood in front of him.
    His aunt introduced them as if he wasn’t ready to fall into her arms and beg her to kiss him. The tops of her breasts swelled against her bodice with the graceful movement of her curtsy, and Gavin could