The Duke of Blackwood had just announced to 27 people that he intended to marry a woman he did not love.
Nobody laughed. That was the first indication that the evening was going badly.
Nathaniel Blackwood sat at the head of the long dining table, one hand beside his untouched wine glass, while every aristocratic face in the room stared at him as though he had announced his intention to sell the estate brick by brick.
His aunt was the first to recover. "That is impossible—you cannot possibly be serious."
Nathaniel lifted his eyes. "I rarely joke about marriage."
"That is precisely what worries me."
Across the table, Lord Pembroke cleared his throat. "Your Grace, perhaps you should reconsider the wording."
"What wording?"
"The part where you said you require a wife solely to produce an heir."
Nathaniel glanced around. "I said exactly what I meant."
A silence followed. Then Lady Margaret slowly put down her fork. "Nathaniel."
He looked at her.
"You really must not say things like that in polite company."
"Why not?"
"Because there are ladies present."
Nathaniel looked around. There were twelve ladies present. Every one of them was staring at him. He calmly reached for his wine.
"They already know what marriage is for."
Someone coughed. Someone else nearly choked.
Lady Margaret closed her eyes. "Good Lord."
Nathaniel took a sip. "I see no reason to pretend otherwise."
The truth was he had run out of patience. For three years, every dinner, ball, house party, and afternoon visit had ended the same way: marriage, a duchess, an heir, the Blackwood succession, his father's dying wish, his mother's anxious letters, his relatives' increasingly obvious calculations, and always the same question—when would Nathaniel marry?
The answer had always been never, until that afternoon. His solicitor had placed a document in front of him and quietly explained what would happen if Nathaniel died without a legitimate child. The Blackwood estate would not remain in the family. It would pass to Lord Adrian Vale.
Nathaniel had stared at the document for nearly a minute. "How certain are you?"
"Entirely certain, Your Grace."
Adrian Vale: the man who had spent the past five years smiling politely while waiting for Nathaniel to die. The man who had once suggested selling three of the family's farms because they were sentimentally maintained. The man who considered tenants an inconvenience and servants disposable. Nathaniel would sooner leave Blackwood Hall to a pack of wolves; at least wolves had loyalty to their own kind.
So he made a decision. He would marry, but he would not pretend to be in love. He would not parade some society beauty through London, allow her family to negotiate over his fortune, and spend the rest of his life pretending their marriage was romantic. He wanted a practical arrangement: a woman who understood the terms, a legitimate heir, financial security for her, a respectable marriage, and when their duty was fulfilled, she would have the freedom to live independently. Simple, efficient, emotionally painless.
Or so Nathaniel thought.
His aunt broke the silence. "And who precisely is this unfortunate woman?"
"I haven't chosen her yet."
Lady Margaret stared. "You announced a marriage without having a bride?"
"I announced an intention."
"That is worse."
Nathaniel finally smiled. "I have always been told I should be more decisive."
"Not recklessly decisive."
"Those are the only two kinds of decisive."
A few people laughed nervously. Lady Margaret did not. "That will not do. You cannot simply select a woman as though you are selecting a horse."
"I have no interest in horses."
"You own seventeen."
"They are useful."
"So are wives, apparently."
Nathaniel gave her a dry look. "That is an unfair interpretation."
"Is it?" His mother finally spoke. "If you are truly determined to do this, then do it properly."
"I intend to."
"Then don't choose a woman simply because she is willing to bear your child."
"Why not?"
"Because she will still have to live with you afterward."
For the first time that evening, Nathaniel had no immediate answer. His mother lifted her wine glass.
"You have forgotten that part."
"No, I haven't. I'll manage."
"I am sure you will." That was what worried her.