a warm dressing gown. “All I am saying, Quinn, is do not marry in haste.”
“Why not, if she is the one for me?”
“This gel who’s got your blood heated may well be your perfect match,” Rogan exhaled, passing his hand through his damp hair. “Only promise me you’ll get to know her, truly know her, and her family, before speaking of a ring... and children , for God’s sake.”
Quinn tossed his sodden coat over the back of a chair before the fire, then sat down and allowed the footman to tug off his wet boots. “Haven’t you ever seen something from afar, a fowling-piece, or horseflesh perhaps, and known instantly that it was perfect for you?”
“A gun is a far cry from a woman, Quinn. If I became less than enamored with a fowling-piece, I could sell it, or stash it away in the bowels of the house. Can’t do that with a woman. Against the law, you know. At least I think so.” Rogan rubbed his chin. “Might be worth looking into though... for future reference.”
Quinn laughed as he rose and peeled his sodden lawn shirt from his upper torso. “You know what I mean. She’s beautiful, quiet, and shy. Definitely of the Quality—I can tell by the graceful way she holds her back.”
“You can tell all of that from riding past her each Tuesday?”
“Her beauty is not up for debate, Rogan. You will see soon enough. And as for her nature, well, that is quite evident as well. When we pass in the park, she always glances up at me through her lashes. Gives me a shy smile, then blushes the most delicate rose hue and turns her face away.”
“Oh, a delicate rose hue, well, that changes matters, doesn’t it? Of course, I amend my stand. You should marry her at once. A delicate rose hue, imagine that.”
Quinn tied his dressing gown closed. “How can I make you understand?”
“Doubt you can. In my mind, marriage is not about infatuation. ’Tis a business arrangement between families.” Rogan lifted two glasses of port from the footman’s salver and handed one to his brother. “Proceed with caution, that’s all I ask. Wouldn’t want to end up with a common mushroom interested only in your purse.”
“Why is it that when you, or I, meet a woman, you immediately suspect her of having her eye on our fortunes?”
“Because I am a realist, Quinn. I have seen too many gentlemen give their hearts to women who love only their money. You want to live in misery the rest of your days, go ahead, marry a commoner.”
“Marrying a commoner is not always the wrong decision, Rogan. When our father married my mother, she was a simple miss with nary a guinea to her name. Until the day Father died, theirs was the most successful of marriages.”
Rogan turned around and faced the fire so that Quinn could not see the blood rise into his cheeks.
Good God. That statement was at least ten furlongs from the truth.
How could Quinn have been so blind to his mother’s greed? She was a guinea-grabber, and nothing less!
Less than a year after Rogan’s mother had died giving birth to him, Miss Molly Hamish, a fresh-faced commoner from Lincolnshire , had sunk her talons deep into his grieving father. He’d been smitten, and so in need of affection that he’d married her the very moment his grieving period had been at an end.
From what his father had told him in later years, once she’d become a duchess and borne her husband a son—Quinn—she’d closed her bedchamber door to him for good. She no longer even pretended to love the duke, or to tolerate Rogan. She lavished gifts upon Quinn, bought baubles and gowns for herself, and traveled to fashionable spas with her vulgar friends.
The old duke was left in despair, lamenting his rash decision to marry the miserable guinea-grabber for the rest of his days.
Rogan swore he’d never repeat his father’s mistake. And he was not about to let his younger brother fall prey to some conniving commoner the way his father had.
No, he planned to keep a wary eye on
“Why not, if she is the one for me?”
“This gel who’s got your blood heated may well be your perfect match,” Rogan exhaled, passing his hand through his damp hair. “Only promise me you’ll get to know her, truly know her, and her family, before speaking of a ring... and children , for God’s sake.”
Quinn tossed his sodden coat over the back of a chair before the fire, then sat down and allowed the footman to tug off his wet boots. “Haven’t you ever seen something from afar, a fowling-piece, or horseflesh perhaps, and known instantly that it was perfect for you?”
“A gun is a far cry from a woman, Quinn. If I became less than enamored with a fowling-piece, I could sell it, or stash it away in the bowels of the house. Can’t do that with a woman. Against the law, you know. At least I think so.” Rogan rubbed his chin. “Might be worth looking into though... for future reference.”
Quinn laughed as he rose and peeled his sodden lawn shirt from his upper torso. “You know what I mean. She’s beautiful, quiet, and shy. Definitely of the Quality—I can tell by the graceful way she holds her back.”
“You can tell all of that from riding past her each Tuesday?”
“Her beauty is not up for debate, Rogan. You will see soon enough. And as for her nature, well, that is quite evident as well. When we pass in the park, she always glances up at me through her lashes. Gives me a shy smile, then blushes the most delicate rose hue and turns her face away.”
“Oh, a delicate rose hue, well, that changes matters, doesn’t it? Of course, I amend my stand. You should marry her at once. A delicate rose hue, imagine that.”
Quinn tied his dressing gown closed. “How can I make you understand?”
“Doubt you can. In my mind, marriage is not about infatuation. ’Tis a business arrangement between families.” Rogan lifted two glasses of port from the footman’s salver and handed one to his brother. “Proceed with caution, that’s all I ask. Wouldn’t want to end up with a common mushroom interested only in your purse.”
“Why is it that when you, or I, meet a woman, you immediately suspect her of having her eye on our fortunes?”
“Because I am a realist, Quinn. I have seen too many gentlemen give their hearts to women who love only their money. You want to live in misery the rest of your days, go ahead, marry a commoner.”
“Marrying a commoner is not always the wrong decision, Rogan. When our father married my mother, she was a simple miss with nary a guinea to her name. Until the day Father died, theirs was the most successful of marriages.”
Rogan turned around and faced the fire so that Quinn could not see the blood rise into his cheeks.
Good God. That statement was at least ten furlongs from the truth.
How could Quinn have been so blind to his mother’s greed? She was a guinea-grabber, and nothing less!
Less than a year after Rogan’s mother had died giving birth to him, Miss Molly Hamish, a fresh-faced commoner from Lincolnshire , had sunk her talons deep into his grieving father. He’d been smitten, and so in need of affection that he’d married her the very moment his grieving period had been at an end.
From what his father had told him in later years, once she’d become a duchess and borne her husband a son—Quinn—she’d closed her bedchamber door to him for good. She no longer even pretended to love the duke, or to tolerate Rogan. She lavished gifts upon Quinn, bought baubles and gowns for herself, and traveled to fashionable spas with her vulgar friends.
The old duke was left in despair, lamenting his rash decision to marry the miserable guinea-grabber for the rest of his days.
Rogan swore he’d never repeat his father’s mistake. And he was not about to let his younger brother fall prey to some conniving commoner the way his father had.
No, he planned to keep a wary eye on
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