The duke shook off his musings and his gaze sharpened, fixing on Constantine again. “You need to cease your dawdling. Life is short. No one knows that better than I do. Get married and get your heir secured.” His lips twisted. “And then work on the next one. There is no such thing as security, no guarantees, but you can shore up your resources. The more offspring the better.”

Constantine shifted his weight uneasily on his feet. It felt too soon to propose. Certainly more time was required than the few months he had been acquainted with Lady Elise. Winston had died scarcely a year ago. He knew the Birchwoods were anxious to see their line secured. They wanted him married and a child en route . . . but this was rash even for them. There were standards of mourning to be considered. The black crepe might have been removed a month ago, but it still felt hasty.

And yet Birchwood was an exalted peer. He had the ear of the queen. If anyone frowned on his actions, they would keep all opinions to themselves. In fact, crusty old peers of Birchwood’s ilk were likely urging him to get Constantine hitched posthaste.

Lady Elise was an amenable young lady, but he sensed a certain reserve in her. He was not convinced she was receptive to his suit. For all the time they had spent in each other’s company, she still felt like a stranger to him.

He rather thought it might always be that way. Were he to marry her, he would wake up in twenty years and still know her no better than he did now. They would be kind, dispassionate partners living together and yet detached from one another.

Not like Nora Langley. Dispassionate could never be a word applied to her. He’d been in her company only a few occasions, and he felt as though they had many more encounters between them. That was probably a result of uncovering her deceit. Once someone was revealed to be a devious fraud, were there really any barriers left?

“Do you know who stands to inherit following you? If you do not bring forth issue? Do you?” Birchwood demanded, his eyes looking a little wild. “Who is next in line after you?”

Con shook his head, alarmed at the directness of Birchwood’s questioning, to say nothing of his agitation. Such forthrightness was so very uncharacteristic, so very unaristocratic of him, and Birchwood was every inch the blue-blooded noble.

“My solicitors are not definite, but they believe they tracked the next in line to Argentina. They’ve sent an agent to ferret out some distant relation who settled in Buenos Aires over fifty years ago to see if he’s still alive or has any issue on the off chance you should not come up to scratch. Can you imagine?” he sputtered. “I did my duty and now my legacy is left in such doubt.”