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intimate part of the female anatomy.

Two
    â€œHaving family in your employ is always a mixed blessing.”
    His Grace, the Duke of Moreland, made this observation while Deene ambled along at his side in the gardens behind the Moreland mansion. “You want to provide for your dependents, and you expect they’ll be somewhat more loyal than strangers would be, but it can also get complicated.”
    â€œAnthony has done a magnificent job,” Deene countered. “He’s never once by word or deed indicated he has designs on the title.”
    His Grace paused to sniff a white rose. “Then you are fortunate indeed, since he’s all the family you’ve got.”
    â€œNot all.”
    His Grace straightened. “There is the girl. I’d forgotten, but you likely haven’t. How does she go on?”
    Upon the death of Deene’s father, Percival, Duke of Moreland, had come calling with his duchess as part of the usual round of condolence visits. The Moreland estates neighbored with the seat of the Deene marquessate, and if nothing else, His Grace and his late lordship had ridden to hounds together countless times.
    What had begun as a neighborly gesture had turned into something unprecedented in Deene’s experience: a mentorship of sorts on Moreland’s part.
    â€œThe girl isn’t in poor health, from what I can tell. Dolan does not permit me to call.”
    â€œHe wouldn’t turn your wife away.”
    Deene didn’t flatter himself that he was any particular friend of Moreland’s—he was a vote, perhaps, on some of the duke’s pet bills—but Moreland had been generous with advice at a time when Deene was without much wisdom of his own.
    â€œExcept I have no wife.”
    This provoked a surprisingly sweet smile from His Grace. “Then you should rectify that poverty posthaste. Because I am the lone male in my household at present, I am more privy to the ladies’ views on your situation than I would be otherwise. I understand you are being stalked by the debutantes and their mamas.”
    â€œOf course I am being stalked.” Lest this conversation continue on into the Moreland home itself, Deene gestured to a bench and waited for Moreland to seat himself before doing the same. “I am the highest available title, unless you count some septuagenarian dukes with ample progeny, and I am in need of an heir. When I am riding to hounds, I will never pursue Reynard with quite the same lack of sympathy I have in the past.”
    â€œThe fox most often escapes the hounds, because he’s running for his life. The wrong wife can make you entirely resent yours.”
    How honest could one be with a man twice one’s age?
    â€œI cannot say my parents’ union escaped such a characterization.”
    His Grace stretched out long legs and leaned his head back, closing his eyes. “Times were different then. Matches were usually arranged by the parents for dynastic reasons, and expectations of the institution were different. Here is my advice to you, young man, which you may discard or heed at your pleasure: do not marry until you meet that person whom you cannot imagine living the rest of your life without. Call it love, call it affection, call it a fine understanding. Put whatever label you want on it. You will be wed for the rest of your life or perhaps for hers, and that can be a long, long time.”
    His Grace sat up and speared Deene with a look. “Take your cousin about with you socially. Have him shadow your moves so you’re not waylaid in the rose arbor by some scheming minx. I know of what I speak, young Deene, having climbed out of more than one window in my heedless youth. If it hadn’t been for my brother Tony, there’s no telling what my fate might have been.”
    The confidence was surprising and… endearing. Moreland was tall, with the ramrod straight posture of the former cavalry officer and a head of