The clock struck midnight as Gareth joined his brother in the library for a nightcap. All the wedding guests had finally departed, and at last he had a chance to confront Dane about his baffling choice of—Gareth paused to clear his throat before entering the room—bride.

Indeed, Dane looked as if he was just waiting to be confronted. He stood near the fireplace in his long, dark blue banyan, one foot propped on the brass fender, brandy snifter in his right hand while his left hand toyed with a figurine on the mantel. He shot a grin at his younger brother as Gareth silently wandered over to the credenza and helped himself to the brandy.

Snifter in hand, he turned to respond to that grin with a frown.

"Go on, ask," said Dane. "I know you've been dying to ever since you first found out. I don't doubt Miss Benedict is ringing peals over her mother's head at this very moment. She does strike me as something of a hoyden. A pity, that. I wouldn't mind marrying a hoyden."

"Then damn it, man!" Gareth burst out. "Marry Miss Benedict! What the bloody hell are you thinking?"

Now leaning his left elbow on the mantel, Dane pointed to him with the index finger belonging to the hand holding the brandy. "You asked that. I get to take a sip of brandy." So saying, he sipped.

"You're going to drink the brandy no matter what," Gareth argued.

"No, I'm trying something different tonight."

"You seem to be trying a lot of different things, suddenly."

"I knew you'd say that, too." Dane sipped his brandy again. "I know everything you're going to say, Gareth, and I promised myself that every time you say something predictable, I will take a sip of brandy."

"A drinking game? Besides, you don't usually take sips. You take quaffs."

"There may not be enough brandy in the decanter for my usual quaffs. Go on. Say the next thing I already know you're going to say, so I can have another sip."

"I think Lady Milner must have clubbed you over the head to trap you into this."

Dane frowned, but did not take a sip. "I daresay I wasn't expecting you to say that."

"It's the only thing I can think of to explain why you're suddenly not in your right mind."

"Not in my right mind. That calls for a sip."

"Drinking games. Marrying a widow who probably beheaded all six of her previous husbands..."

"She's only had three. Four if you count the one that wasn't valid because he already had a wife locked in Bedlam or some such place."

"So he's attracted to madwomen. I didn't know you were, too. Why not Miss Benedict?"

Dane took another sip. "You don't think she's a madwoman, do you? Or is there no difference between madwomen and hoydens?"

Though his head was already spinning from this conversation, Gareth finally took a huge quaff of brandy. His head continued to spin, though not any faster. He glowered at his brother.

"When you introduced us and said we were soon to be related, naturally I assumed you meant that you were planning to marry Miss Benedict."

Dane's grin widened. "Which makes me vastly more unpredictable than you."

"But why settle for her mother?"

"I'm not 'settling' for Lady Milner, Gareth. I'm the Duke of Bradbury. I don't have to 'settle' for anyone or anything. What's the use of being a duke otherwise?"

Gareth didn't dare ask if love had anything to do with his brother's choice of Lady Milner. For one thing, Dane would tell him it was none of his concern. Indeed, Dane didn't even have to engage in this conversation if he didn't want to. None of this should have been Gareth's concern.

But for another thing, Gareth could scarcely believe love had anything to do with this. No, Lady Milner had some kind of hold over Dane—perhaps the same kind of hold she'd wielded over her three—or four—previous bridegrooms. Maybe she was a witch.

Or maybe Dane wasn't the only one in this room losing his mind.

Gareth tried another tack. "I thought you had a bride already. One our father chose for you, who's been languishing out in the country all this time, waiting for you to set a date."

"That's doubtful. She must be close to thirty by now. Surely she's long since married someone else."

"You mean you don't know if she has?"

"Can't say as I've ever taken the trouble to find out. I've never even met her. I doubt she's ever set foot in London, not even for a season."

"Why would she need one, if she's already betrothed?"

"Good point, but the fact remains I've heard nothing of her."

"Haven't you made inquiries?"

"Why would I?"

For some reason, Gareth felt compelled to argue the point. "But wasn't there ever a contract? Won't her family—"

"Haven't heard a peep from them all these years. They never even sent a note of condolence when our father passed."

"Then you know who they are?"

"If I did, I should think I would have heard that peep from them, and received that note of condolence," Dane said testily. "If I didn't know any better—and frankly, I believe I do know better—they've bloody well forgotten the whole thing. Who knows? And even if she didn't marry someone else, then mayhap she passed away in some dreadful epidemic, such as that which struck the family of the Earl of Renton."

Gareth remembered that, too. Several years ago, influenza swept through a family gathering at the ancestral pile of the Earl of Renton, killing just about everyone save for the earl's two daughters, Lady Ruth and Lady Flora. Some distant cousin inherited the title by dint of being in London at the time.

"Furthermore, now that our father has long since cocked his toes up and I'm the Duke of Bradbury, I daresay I should be able to choose my own bride," Dane added.

"You do have a point," Gareth conceded. "I would also prefer to choose my own bride...eventually. I must say, if there was one advantage of Father always ignoring me and Linus, it's that he never bothered to arrange marriages for us." Linus had been the middle brother between Dane and Gareth. As the second son, he'd joined the army, but was killed in the Battle of Corunna five years ago. The news of his death arrived on the same day their father passed away. Their mother had died many years previously giving birth to a stillborn girl.

Dane continued, "So what is your objection to Lady Milner? I couldn't help noticing that before you chased her daughter into the park, you looked at her—Lady Milner, that is—as if she were a succubus threatening to—"

"Oh, God, don't say that." With a second gulp, Gareth managed to drain his snifter.

Dane, meanwhile, still had some brandy remaining. "What do you know about her? I gather—especially in your line of work for the Crown—that you must have heard something about her."

What a question! What would his brother say—what would his brother do—if he found out that Gareth did, in fact, know Lady Milner—and how?

"Well?" Dane prodded. "Speak up, man. Do you know of an impediment? You look as if you know something."

Gareth slapped himself in the chest. Somehow, it restored his temporarily lost powers of speech. "Pray, what sort of look is that?"

"The same look you gave me when you found out we were betrothed. As if you've met her before, under some rather havey-cavey circumstances."

He wasn't too far off. Gareth's mind scrambled to come up with a ready explanation. After his years working for the Crown, unmasking spies and traitors, he shouldn't have been caught off guard by his brother's announcement—or the sight of Lady Milner's distinctive jewelry.

Gareth could always lie, but he'd rather not—especially if the truth were to come out later on, as it undoubtedly would. He turned back to the credenza to refill his snifter.

"She's never been suspected of being a traitor, if that's what you mean." Brimming snifter in hand, he faced his brother anew. "Are you seeking information about her for your own benefit? 'Twould seem to me, dear brother, that if you've already chosen her to be your bride—that is, if you've proposed to her—then you've waited a too little late to have her vetted."

"There's no need to have her vetted. She is, as they say, an open book. Everyone in the ton seems to know everything about her. Except for you."

That's where his brother was wrong. Gareth did know everything there was to know about Lady Milner. Perhaps more than anyone else in the ton.

None of them, for instance, knew that he—well, that he'd all but known her, Biblically speaking, one night at a Cyprians' ball.

He didn't know if Dane knew, but he wasn't about to ask. Instead, "I do know a few things about her—most likely the same things everyone else knows."

Dane was utterly expressionless as his gaze bored into Gareth's. "I see. So you disapprove of her?"

"As a matter of fact, I do." Only not for the reasons Dane thought. "Not that you need my approval," he hastily added.

"No, I certainly don't. Still, I'm curious as to why you don't approve."

"It doesn't signify."

"I'm curious, Gareth."

I don't approve of you marrying a woman I once pleasured. You surely don't want to marry a woman your brother once pleasured?

But did that matter, considering Dane had to know that Lady Milner had been bedded at least three times already—just by other men?

Gareth had no idea if it would make a difference to his brother.

He only knew it made a great deal of difference to himself.

He'd have to tread carefully. "She's much older than you."

"She's not even fifty. If you must know, she's fifteen years my senior. No one would bat a lash if I took a bride fifteen years my junior. You must admit she looks incredibly young for her age. She even told me that people often mistake her and her daughter for sisters."

Gareth thought he might have done just that today, had the daughter not said, "Mother," in that barely audible, whispery gasp. "Speaking of that, she has two adult children, roughly the same age as you and me. Wouldn't you prefer a wife still young enough to fill your nursery?"

"I don't need to fill any nursery. Not when I still have a younger brother to inherit the title when the time comes. Don't tell me you have no wish to be the duke? I thought all younger brothers were forever plotting to usurp their older brothers?"

"Not this one," Gareth said wearily, setting down his snifter. "And not Linus, either, or he wouldn't have joined the army. But I thought most men—especially those with hereditary titles—would prefer to pass on those titles to their own sons, instead of their younger brothers."

"Most men. Not all. Besides, now that the war is over, you should be at loose ends, looking for something new to do. You can start preparing yourself for the day when you become Duke of Bradbury."

"I should hope that's many years away yet." Though if Dane married the thrice-widowed Lady Milner, he might not be long for this world. "Besides, I don't believe I'd make a very good duke." He knew even as he said this that it was pitifully lame, but under the circumstances, it was the best he could do.

Other than to confess the hideous truth to his brother.

"I'm not certain there is such a thing as a very good duke," Dane countered. "Consider the Duke of Ainsley. He shot the Duke of Sherrington in a duel and had to spend the next five years in India, in disgrace."

"That was before he became a duke," Gareth argued.

"And Sherrington didn't have a son, a younger brother, or even a ne'er-do-well distant cousin to inherit his lot," Dane went on. "His title and estates reverted to the Crown. Then there's the Duke of Halstead, who ran away from home and managed to get himself pressed into the Royal Navy."

"The horror." Gareth feigned a shudder. "But again, before he became a duke."

"How about the Duke of Lanchester, who recently married his cousin's bride?"

"That's because his cousin left the poor girl standing at the altar while he—well, I'm not sure what he did. It depends on whose story you believe."

"Oh, and let's not forget the Duke of Fairborough. Masquerading as a coachman just to meet his betrothed, who refused to have anything to do with him."

"Maybe you should try that with the bride our father selected for you," Gareth grumbled.

"Or how about the Duke of Colfax, who—"

"Very well, you've made your point. I suppose I'd make a better duke than all of them. I'd certainly make a better duke than most of the royal ones, but then so would a rock."

"So you see, there's nothing further to discuss," Dane declared.

Gareth decided he might as well get right to the point—or at least dance around it. "Do you not worry about the scandal?"

"What scandal?"

"Well...don't you know she used to be..."

"Of course I know that. 'Twas more than thirty years ago, before her first marriage."

No, it was closer to three months ago, Gareth thought grimly. There was a very good reason the scandalmongers of the ton talked about her as if she were still an active Cyprian, even at her age. She didn't used to be. She still was. But how could he tell his brother, without damning himself in the process?

He tried another, less dangerous tack. "Then it doesn't bother you that she's been married at least three times already?"

"Why should it? None of her previous husbands are still living. They're all safely dead. So that's scarcely an impediment. Next?"

"What about her children?"

"What about them? They're adults. They shouldn't be affected by this. Her son has a new bride and a newly inherited earldom to keep him occupied. I daresay her daughter is the one in need of a distraction." He grinned.

Gareth did not grin back. Miss Benedict needed more than a distraction. She needed a husband. "Does Tyndall know of your intent to marry his mother?"

"I had no formal meeting with him about it. Besides, I hardly need his consent for her hand in marriage. Now, I trust you will voice no further objections to my choice of bride, unless you happen to know something that would constitute an impediment." He drained his snifter altogether and set it down with the finality of a judge banging a gavel, and stalked out of the library, leaving Gareth to contemplate the stakes. He had to find a way to stop this marriage without letting his brother know that he'd been there first.

He had no way of knowing how Dane would react. Maybe he wouldn't believe Gareth. Maybe he would kill Gareth. Or worse—and yes, Gareth did consider this slightly worse than death—maybe Dane would make Gareth marry Lady Milner.

Or maybe Dane would laugh it off and marry her anyway.

The problem was his betrothed had to know that it was his younger brother who almost brought her to climax at the very same moment they were interrupted by Lord Forrestal, who had seemed to have already made her acquaintance. How could Gareth face her if she married his brother? How could he be in her presence at every family gathering hereafter, sitting at the same table with her, perhaps sitting on the same sofa in the drawing room after dinner, knowing that she knew she'd had him, or almost had him, before she had his brother? How could Gareth look at her without thinking of that scandalous night?

On the other hand, maybe she'd forgotten Gareth. If she was still doing what Dane thought she'd given up more than thirty years ago, then Gareth couldn't be the only one. There had to be others. It was quite possible she didn't remember him.

But he could never forget her, and the reasons made it even worse.

She'd been so sweet and exquisite. She'd seemed almost an innocent, but he'd assumed that was just part of her act. Maybe it was that same act that so enchanted his brother.

Dane reappeared in the library doorway. "Here's a thought, Gareth. Find a husband for her daughter. Or marry her yourself."

Not if Gareth had already bedded her mother, he thought in despair.