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Griffin’s brutish form and the poised, delicious confection Griffin’s fiancée presented. The shame of suffering his grandsire’s open ridicule in front of Rosamund herself still burned like acid in Griffin’s gut.
    Then the old earl’s health had taken an abrupt turn for the worse, postponing the wedding as he lingered for months on the brink of death. His demise had required a suitable mourning period. Besides, Griffin had been far too occupied in bringing the estate into order to trouble himself with a bride.
    And now, there was that damnable business with Allbright.
    But he had to admit the truth, if only to himself. For almost three years, he had seized every possible excuse to avoid actually tying the knot with Lady Rosamund Westruther.
    He’d never forget the way she made him feel that first day they met. Overgrown and hideous, undeserving and furious at his own inadequacy. He’d fallen ludicrously short of her expectations, but she’d been so damned plucky, so gladly determined to make the best of it.
    It was her cursed cheerful dauntlessness that rankled the most. At least if she’d behaved like a spoiled heiress, he could have some basis on which to despise her.
    If only he hadn’t let his animal instincts overcome him and kissed her. He’d passed countless nights since that day consumed with a longing to repeat that incandescent experience. He couldn’t sleep for thinking of her sweet, fragrant softness. If— when —they married, he’d have to live and breathe every day beside that delicious temptation, knowing she must hold him in aversion and contempt.
    Griffin closed his eyes. His grandfather still had the power to torture him, even from the grave.
    But he couldn’t consider his own stupid pride. His sister must come first.
    And he needed to get Jacks away from Pendon Place for good. For a lady of Jacqueline’s station, that meant one thing: marriage.
    “I’ll trust you to come up with a list of eligibles,” he told deVere. “ Young men, mind, honorable, pox free, and in possession of all their teeth.”
    “She’s a difficult gel,” said deVere. “I can draw up a list of possibilities. I can’t promise they’ll agree.”
    Griffin eyed his kinsman shrewdly. “Make it known that I shall settle a generous dowry on her. The Berkshire property, too.”
    At this, deVere’s scowl lightened. He rubbed his big hands together. “That’ll set ’em by the ears!”
    “No doubt.”
    DeVere cocked an eyebrow. “She must have a chaperone who is up to snuff. Not only that, you’ll need someone to school the girl in the ways of society. You’d best wed Lady Rosamund without delay.”
    The sudden urgency of it punched the breath from Griffin’s lungs, made his heart pound in his chest.
    He hoped to God Lady Rosamund would agree.
    And what about this Captain Lauderdale fellow? Her tendre for him complicated matters, didn’t it?
    That some other man showed serious interest in Rosamund was no surprise. She’d caused a sensation when she debuted; Griffin knew all about that. How could it be otherwise? But if his sources were correct, she’d never shown a marked preference for any of the gentlemen who courted her.
    This Lauderdale fellow was a different kettle of fish. Rosamund did, it seemed, display a decided partiality for him. And who could blame the chit for her infatuation? By all accounts, the man possessed wit, charm, and audacity, not to mention a head like a Greek coin. On the battlefield, it was said his bravery was second to none.
    The bastard.
    Still, Lady Rosamund had not openly repudiated her engagement to Griffin. That must mean one of two things: She was biding her time, waiting to secure the duke’s approval to switch grooms; or she intended to take Lauderdale as her lover after she was wed. That’s what ladies in their circle did, wasn’t it?
    A growl formed in his chest. Over his dead body. If he was going to subject himself to the torture of marriage to Lady Rosamund