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he had seen very little of his mother at all. But after his father’s death, he had been compelled to see a vast deal of her, much of the time spent with her clinging to his arm and wailing over her unexpected widowhood.
    Perhaps it was indicative of a hidden weakness in his character, but his mother’s tears Quin could not bear. So, in keeping with the duties of a belatedly good son and a newly betrothed gentleman, tonight he was to take Esmée and Lady Tatton out for yet another evening of facile entertainment.
    Already he’d been wined, dined, theater’ed, and soirée’ed to within an inch of his life. And he had the strangest impression that Esmée was as almost as indifferent to all of it as he was. Still, as his mother was ever fond of saying, appearances mattered. A gentleman engaged to be married was expected to squire his bride-to-be out and about at every opportunity.
    Suddenly, he would have given his right arm to stay at home alone tonight. “That will do, Blevins,” he said to his valet impatiently.
    “What of your neckcloth, sir? And your waistcoat?”
    Quin waved a hand. “I shall finish,” he returned. “Thank you. You are excused until this evening.”
    Blevins gave a subservient nod and made himself scarce. The poor devil knew enough to comprehend when his master was in a vile mood, something which did not, thank God, occur often.
    Quin prided himself on being an even-tempered sort. Still, given his dissolute habits, there was the occasional unpleasant morning after, which made a chap feel snappish. And there had been rare instances over the years when his mother had actually managed to run him to ground so that she might subject him to a long and querulous harangue about wasting his life. Certainly that did nothing to improve upon one’s mood. Other than that, he had long ago decided there was little on this earth worth getting riled over.
    So why was he feeling so apprehensive of late? He was to be married, and to a young woman whom he liked very much. He was fortunate to have found someone both beautiful and sensible. Someone who possessed a remarkable strength of character. Someone who could make him laugh. But Quin was not fool enough to think he was in love, or that Esmée Hamilton was the only woman in the world for him.
    No, Quin had learnt the hard way that there was always another woman to be had. His life had long been awash in them. Women, it seemed, found him attractive. At least, that was what they often told him, right before making him an offer they thought he could not refuse.
    As an awkward young man, he had not fully appreciated the power which his looks, wealth, and rank bestowed upon him. As a man grown, he understood it all too well. And he had long ago decided that it was far better simply to pay for his pleasure, as any man might. He preferred that no one harbor any illusions about the relationship—and no one included himself.
    Oh, Devellyn might joke about it, but there was much to be said for the simplicity of a clean cash transaction. That way, there was no misunderstanding. No expectation. And no delusive hope. That, too, was something he had long believed he could live without. Until, that was, he’d met Esmée. He had liked her the moment he set eyes on the little Scottish spitfire. Perhaps that was the very problem? Perhaps he liked his affianced bride just a little too well. Perhaps he was beginning to hope again. That was most unwise. Because this afternoon…oh, Christ Jesus. He would not think of it.
    Almost without realizing it, Quin went to the small writing desk between his windows and began to dig through the bottom drawer for his old gilt snuffbox. He had not seen it in an age. He found it wedged between a pair of old inkpots, underneath a pile of truly bad poetry. He really did need to pitch that drivel heap into the next good fire, he mused as he shuffled through it, before someone read it and got a good laugh at his expense.
    Instead, he tossed the