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birth.
And, whether he liked it or not, his future wife’s pedigree was the
most important thing of all. Begrudgingly, he knew his father had
been right about Abigail at least in one respect—Society may have
accepted her as Jasper’s countess, but she would never have fit in,
nor would she have been happy. She’d been a country miss through
and through. Jasper needed a wife who was both capable of mastering
Society and eager to do so.
    A jab to his side drew him from his thoughts.
Louisa peered up at him. “You’re thinking of a specific girl. Do
tell.”
    He had to be careful. Louisa always saw what
others never bothered to look for. “No one.”
    The corners of her mouth pulled down, and
Jasper knew she meant to call him on his fib. Instead, he got to
his feet. “Pardon me, but I need to speak with someone.”
    “Coward.”
    He leaned down and took her hand, quickly
pressing a kiss to her knuckles. They both knew he’d immediately
make his exit.
    Except the duke stepped into his path just as
he made the door. “Leaving so soon? After last night’s pointed
absence?” He didn’t wait for Jasper’s response before launching his
next volley. “What the hell happened to your face? You look as
though you’ve been run down by a coach and four. Good God, did you
lose at Jackson’s?”
    Jasper curled his fingers into his palms, a
typical response to the duke’s presence. Jasper didn’t want him to
know about the club, but his attempts at hiding things from Holborn
always ended badly—from the figurine he’d broken at five, to the
bottle of brandy he’d downed at twelve, to the girl he’d fallen in
love with at eighteen. As punishment the duke had ensured the
consequences of each transgression hurt: the destruction of all of
his toys, a diet of bread, cheese, and water for a month, and, most
excruciating of all, the complete excision of Abigail from his
life.
    “No. Not that it’s any of your concern.”
    “It bloody well is. Everything you do is my
concern until you provide an heir. Then everything he does will be
my concern.”
    A well-worn conversation. “The poor child’s
doomed, and he hasn’t even been conceived yet.”
    Holborn unclasped his hands. “What are you
doing to secure a wife?”
    He wasn’t going to question Jasper about the
fighting? Jasper, rarely surprised by the duke, blinked. But then
Holborn was so fixated on Jasper’s bride, he likely didn’t care
about anything else. At least for now.
    Jasper kept a firm grasp on his temper. “I’ll
meet your silly deadline. Stop pestering me.”
    “I’ll do more than pester. I still like
Stone’s chit.” His gaze strayed to where the young lady in question
stood talking with her mother and another pair of women. “Her
dowry’s nice, and her tits are even nicer.”
    Jasper stifled a twitch of revulsion. He
refused to discuss a female’s physical attributes with his father
as if she were a piece of horseflesh. “You needn’t concern yourself
with my selection.”
    Holborn made a sound that was half snort and
half grunt, though soft enough so no one could possibly overhear. A
sound he never, ever made in polite company, but then he’d
subjected Jasper to many things he’d never do in public. “Of course
I do. Your taste tends to run to the gutter, if memory serves.” He
paused to let the insult—and reminder—hang in the air.
    Jasper stepped around Holborn, eager to be on
his way.
    The duke grabbed him just above the elbow. He
spoke low, but the fury in his voice was evident. “Tell me your
prospects.”
    Jasper’s temper buckled and snapped,
something he never let happen in public. Until last night…twice in
two days? He turned his head with an angry intake of breath. “I
find it ironic that if you hadn’t intervened, I’d have been married
these past ten years with an heir and plenty of spares. Don’t
you?”
    “Wed that lowly country sow?” The duke
struggled to keep his voice low. “You should thank me