She smiled at him, a slow sunrise of warmth, pleasure, and feminine approval. The whole woman changed, becoming mysterious and lovely. Tremont did not know how to return such a smile, how to reflect her joy and magnificence back at her, but, oh, he wanted to.

“Do you have a list, my lord?”

Her question made no sense. “A list?”

“For your countess. The lady you will be seeking throughout the Little Season and beyond if necessary.”

Had Tremont’s horse been shot out from under him, he could not have been more disconcerted, but he rallied.

“I do, as it happens. One wants to go about the business with some sort of plan, and I did make a list.”

Mrs. Merridew made a say on gesture with her hand.

Such disclosures only ended in disaster, but Tremont would not argue with this lady. “She must be of sound mind, gracious, and well organized. Content with rural society, but capable of comporting herself well in Town. Prudent, but not miserly. Take care with her appearance without being vain. Well-read, but not a literary snob. Intelligent, not arrogant. Of good character and of good humor as well. Need I go on?”

Something loud thumped on the carpet in the library—a small boy leaping from a bookcase, perhaps.

“You describe yourself in a ball gown, my lord, and you leave out the most important factor.”

“I don’t much care about a dowry. We’re getting Tremont back on its feet, and rural Shropshire—”

Mrs. Merridew put her hand over his mouth, the scent a peculiar blend of dust and roses and her palm not exactly petal-smooth.

“She must love you,” Mrs. Merridew said. “She must love the man you are and hold you in honest, sincere esteem.” She dropped her hand, squared her shoulders, and faced the library door. “Settle for nothing less. Not for her charm, her gracious wit, or her pretty smile, much less her perishing dowry. Demand her love and give her yours in return. Good day, my lord, and good hunting.”

Tremont had promised to drive Miss Caroline Pringle in the park that afternoon, a task which had shifted in the last two minutes from pointless to vexing. He had no intention of marrying Miss Pringle. She gossiped, she clung to his arm in public, and her father had made all manner of vulgar allusions to generous settlements.

Her mother was a chattering phenomenon designed to strike terror into the hearts of young bachelors, and Miss Pringle was said to have a brother on remittance in Rome. Tremont had offered to take her driving out of something akin to pity or duty or a confused mixture of the two, so tour the park with her he would—all the while praying for rain.