“Yvette was a weak-headed ninny, and she’ll make the count’s life hell.”

Hugo had come to the same conclusion; he had been married to Yvette for six years, and fathered four children with her, and he still hadn’t understood her. Nothing seemed to please her: not him, the title, the castle, the children, nothing.

Even so, she had wanted—she had deserved—more from him.

“She ran off with Yaraslov because I didn’t give a damn,” he said, meeting his sister’s eyes squarely.

Louisa snorted. “Last time I heard, the church hadn’t started handing out dispensations for adultery on the basis of a husband’s lack of affection. Who could give a damn about Yvette? I can’t abide a woman who makes an art out of complaining.”

“Her children.”

“Now, there you’re wrong,” his sister said cheerfully, getting up from the desk. “The babes hardly knew what she looked like, and they’ve forgotten her entirely by now. The last time she visited Lindow Castle was two years ago at Yuletide. Did she spend any time in the nursery? No.”

“She was great with child,” Hugo pointed out.

“Other mothers manage to visit their children during confinement. She deposited the newborn with a wet nurse and climbed into a carriage two days later. About the only thing I can say for Yvette is that she has a constitution like an ox. Six children in four—”

“Four children in six years,” Hugo corrected.

Louisa shrugged. “The nursery is so crowded that I lose track. To return to the important point, you have no need for more offspring, but you do need a mother for those you already have. If I include Parth in the number, since the boy is now an orphan, you have eight children.”

Hugo nodded. “True.”

“You’re like that old woman who lived in a shoe, except Lindow Castle is a mighty fine shoe. Luckily, you aren’t showing your age—or, should I say, our age—so you should be able to scoop up a new duchess without a problem,” his twin continued.

“No lady would want to marry a divorced man,” Hugo said, keeping it simple. He was not only divorced—an exceedingly rare status granted by an Act of Parliament only in cases of extraordinarily bad behavior—he was jaded, cynical, and completely uninterested in the flimsy, foolish twaddle that passed for polite conversation.

“I’ll be damned if another wife of mine takes a lover,” he added. “I should have challenged Yaraslov the moment I heard of it.” The sad truth was that he hadn’t cared enough to duel the man.

“Pshaw, he wasn’t worth it,” Louisa said, with a dismissive wave of her hand. “Yvette was a hussy. The key is to find a woman with disdain for the bed. Believe me, London is full of ladies in that frame of mind.”

Hugo groaned. “A lovely prospect for a spouse.”