Chapter Three

Oliver slowly closed the leather-bound book, careful to keep the pages of Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet from rustling. Holding his breath, he set the book on the pedestal tea table beside his chair and moved to stand.

“If you want to leave, say so. You do yourself a disservice trying to sneak away like some sort of inept thief.”

Damnation. Oliver slumped back into the chair. “My apologies, Grandmother. I thought you had fallen asleep. I didn’t want to disturb you.”

“I am not asleep.”

Obviously. He kept from rolling his eyes. The doctor claimed advanced age had severely diminished her eyesight, but Oliver didn’t believe him. Nothing escaped the older woman’s notice. He picked up the book. “Would you like me to continue reading aloud?”

She waved a small, bony hand, the intricate lace cuff of her dressing gown fluttering with the movement. “No. You clearly have had your fill of me for one day.”

He sighed. “That’s not true, Grandmother.”

The afternoon sunlight streamed through the window, the golden rays creating a halo effect around her gray head. Propped up against a pile of fluffy white pillows, and with the ivory coverlet tucked about her waist, she looked so very tiny and frail, but her sharp tongue belied her appearance. The carriage accident almost a decade ago had left her an invalid, confining her to her massive four-poster bed. If not for him, she would be left with only the company of two servants. She might not be the most pleasant individual, but she was his grandmother and he did love her.

Frowning, she selected a scone from the box nestled at her hip and took a bite. Likely she only tolerated his visits because he brought her sweets.

“Would you care for another cup of tea?” he asked.

“You’ve already pushed three cups on me. I do not need another.” She finished the scone and closed the baker’s box.

He remained seated, waiting patiently as she struggled to retie the red ribbon around the box. If he offered his assistance, he’d only get snapped at.

When she finished, she set the box on top of one of the piles of books on her bedside table. Othello, A Midsummer Night’s Dream, MacBeth. He knew every one of those books by heart. After readjusting the coverlet about her, she turned her attention back to him. “When are you going to take a wife?”

He squirmed in the pink floral silk chair. Where had that question come from? And how could he tell her never without revealing why? He reached up and straightened the jade pin on his cravat. He belonged to Vincent, never with another.

“Radford’s married and has already produced an heir,” he said, referring to his elder brother, who held the courtesy title Earl of Radford. His brother’s wife had written to him from Northumberland a few weeks ago informing him of the event. The countess was as bland and aloof as his brother, but at least she remembered he existed.

“What does that have to do with your future wife?”

“There’s little chance the title will come to me. So there’s no need to inflict myself on some innocent woman for the sake of securing the title.” A title that was little more than a name and a neglected property in Wiltshire, since his father had long since bled the estate dry.

Thin lips pursed, she stared at him, her cloudy, dark brown gaze sharp and piercing. “I never did much care for Radford or your father.”

No surprise there. She didn’t much care for anyone.

“But you…you should take a wife.”

Oliver shook his head. The woman was definitely getting on in years. She wasn’t making the least bit of sense. “But I don’t have anything to offer a wife. No prospects. A pittance of an income. I can’t afford to pay a lady’s modiste bills, much less purchase a home for her to live in.”

“Nonsense,” she declared, all aristocratic condescension. “You are the son of a marquess. That alone will fetch you a chit with a decent dowry, enough for you to live comfortably. She will marry you for your name, and you will marry her for her money.”

How cold and impersonal. He winced.

“That is what is done.” She punctuated her words with a short, determined nod. “How marriages are made, and how your mother came to marry your father, and how I came to marry your grandfather. Sentiment has no place in marriage. Do not forget that. Expecting more will only lead to disappointment.”

But of course. Why ever would he expect someone to love him? A tide of misery, so fresh it felt as if Vincent had just walked out the door, tightened his throat. He tipped his chin down, letting his over-long, jaw-length hair partially obscure his face, and studied the ornate embossed leatherwork on the book’s cover in his lap, as he struggled to regain his composure. “Ah…I’ll…I’ll keep that in mind, Grandmother.”

He should have left when she had given him the opportunity. This morning he had awoken with his patience well in hand. The doubts gone, replaced with anticipation at the prospect of seeing Vincent tonight. But now—

“Oliver.”

The unexpected note of compassion in her usual whip-sharp voice brought his gaze up to hers.

Her sparse gray brows were lowered, the deep lines on her forehead in stark relief. “While I still mourn your mother’s death, there was a bit of relief in it for her. Your father made her miserable. I do not want that for you.”

He swallowed hard. “Yes, Grandmother. I understand.” In her own odd way, she was concerned for him. But he was afraid her warning had come much too late. “If you will excuse me, I must take my leave. I have an appointment, and I don’t wish to be late.” He had five hours until Vincent showed up at his apartments, and it wouldn’t take a fifth of that time for him to walk home. But he had no other excuse to leave at the ready. No other place he needed to be. No other responsibilities that required his attention. “Is there anything you need?” He had already checked in with her housekeeper, seen to her posts, and made arrangements to have a bank draft sent from her account to the butcher to settle the latest bill.

“No, no. Be on your way.” That imperious tone was back, all traces of compassion gone.

He set the book on the tea table, stood, and took hold of her proffered hand, her skin icy cold. He pressed a kiss to her weathered cheek.

Delicate, boney fingers wrapped around his, surprising in their grip, keeping him from turning from the bed. “Old age is lonely, Oliver. Find a nice lady, if for no other reason than to eventually have a grandson who will pay you calls.”

He met her solemn gaze. The cloudy dark depths held far more than mere concern. She didn’t explicitly say the words, but he didn’t need her to. He understood, and he could not deny that it felt good to know someone loved him.

* * *

Vincent lifted his freshly shaven chin. His slim, middle-aged valet barely reached his shoulder, and the man had to lift up onto his toes to loop the cravat about his neck. Quick and efficient, Barton molded the long length of starched white linen into crisp folds and a neat knot.

The first day back in Town after a long visit to the country was always a busy one. Yet even the continual press of appointments, calls, and correspondences had not been able to keep him from pulling out his pocket watch at least a dozen times, willing the small black hands to move faster.

“The fawn waistcoat, my lord?” His valet motioned to the garment laid out on the navy coverlet of the bed.

Vincent flicked his fingers. “Yes, yes, Barton. That will do.”

At half past six and not a moment later, he had stepped away from his desk. After Barton finished with him, he could go on to White’s to pick up the supper he’d sent a footman ahead to order. Marsden preferred the steak there. Oh, and the Bordeaux. Couldn’t forget that. He’d grab a nice bottle from his wine cellar before he left the house.

The routine so familiar, Barton’s nimble fingers were doing up the buttons on his waistcoat before Vincent realized the man had put it on him. A quick glance at the brass clock on the fireplace mantel confirmed it was not yet seven. Still plenty of time. He didn’t want to risk ruffling Marsden’s feathers again. Vincent slipped his arms into the sleeves when his valet held out his coat. Or had there been more to it than that? Tardiness never bothered Marsden before. Yet a little nudge prodded the back of his mind, one he couldn’t quite define other than to label it disconcerting.

“Perhaps the black coat tonight, my lord?”

He blinked and focused on Barton’s questioning face. “Pardon?”

“Would you prefer the black instead of the bottle green?”

“No. The green will do.”

There was a soft scratch on his bedchamber door. With a tip of his head, Barton went to the door. Vincent took his pocket watch from the mahogany chest of drawers and attached it to his waistcoat. He was buttoning his coat when Barton stopped beside him, tray in hand.

“For you, my lord.”

With a quick snap, he tugged his shirt cuffs out from under the sleeves of his coat. Then he took the missive from the silver tray. His hand shook just the tiniest bit when he used the silver letter opener that had also been on the tray to break the distinctive red wax seal of the Marquess of Saye and Sele.

Prescot—An audience is requested immediately.

—Saye and Sele

“My greatcoat. Now, man.”

Barton dropped the discarded clothing he had been gathering. Vincent’s sharp tone sent him scurrying into his master’s dressing room, reappearing just as quickly with the requested garment.

Vincent put on the greatcoat, tucking the letter into his pocket. His father wished to see him. Had he heard about the success he had made of the Rotherham property? After his repeated requests for the property had been met with refusals, Vincent had purchased it outright. Did his father wish to congratulate him on turning what had once been a blight on the Saye and Sele marquessate into a lucrative investment?

In less than a minute, he was down the stairs, out the front door of his townhouse, and in his waiting carriage.

By the time a footman clad in scarlet and gray livery was showing him to his father’s study, reason had descended, replacing the surge of excitement with mere curiosity. Over six months ago, he had found that vein of coal on the property. If his father cared to acknowledge the success, he would have mentioned it well before now. Still, he couldn’t help but wonder why his father wished to see him. It had been years…years since he had received such a missive.

The footman opened the oak door and Vincent stepped inside. With its high ceiling, dark paneled walls, somber gilt-framed portraits, and black leather wingback chairs, the room was a near duplicate of the study at the family’s country estate, reminding him vividly of the times he had walked into its twin as a youth. That need for attention so strong it had clogged his throat and sent his heart pounding in his chest. He stopped before his father’s massive desk and clasped his hands behind his back, reminding himself firmly that he was a man now and not a needy eleven-year-old boy.

His father didn’t acknowledge his presence, merely slipped his pen into the silver penholder. Looking at his father, with his tall, broad-shouldered frame and neatly cropped silver hair, was like looking into a mirror and seeing his sixty-year-old self reflected back at him. Vincent used to wonder if their similarity in appearance had somehow caused his father to dislike him. Silly notion. But there had been a time when his father’s complete lack of interest in him had left him so confused he’d been willing to grasp at any straw to explain it.

Using a silver stamp, Vincent’s father pressed his seal into the red wax, sealing the letter he had been writing. He placed the letter in the center of the tray at the edge of his desk then turned his blue eyes to Vincent. Eyes which never seemed to truly see him. “I am in need of a favor.”

From me? Somehow he kept his jaw from dropping.

“The Duke of Halstead paid me a call today. He wishes to form an alliance with our family.”

“What sort of alliance?”

“Marriage. His only daughter is set to make her come-out in the spring,” his father replied, as if Vincent were a simpleton for not deducing it himself.

Yet he couldn’t stop the baffled “To me?” from falling from his lips.

His father’s upper lip curled. “The duke intends to marry his daughter to the heir of the Saye and Sele marquessate. Not the spare.”

Vincent rolled one shoulder, trying to throw off the hurt, but to no avail. It stuck to his spine, stiffening his back. “Then what do you need of me?”

“To free your brother from Lady Juliana. He cannot toss her aside himself. You must dance attendance on her and wed her by the end of the year, before Grafton returns from the country. Don’t bother with the banns. Marry her by special license. It will be put about that it is a love match, and therefore all will be forgiven, leaving Grafton free to wed his grace’s daughter at the start of the Season.”

Though he rarely spoke to his elder brother, the Earl of Grafton, he had the distinct impression the man was rather fond of the girl. Grafton, however, would do whatever their father wished without question. “But what about Lady Juliana? It’s been understood that Grafton would marry her.”

“She’s an earl’s daughter and will still do well to marry you." The man’s off-handed tone wiped away any shadow of a compliment.

Marriage? Vincent took a deep breath, that word bouncing about in his skull. Marriage? If a bit of tardiness had ruffled Marsden’s feathers last night, then how would he react to this?

Oh, God. Marsden. His stomach dropped to his feet, his knees threatening to buckle. He gripped his clasped hands tight and kept his expression free of all emotion. “But I am only four-and-twenty. I haven’t yet given much consideration to marriage.” Men of his station typically did not wed until they were much closer to the age of thirty, after they had established themselves and after they had their fill of all the sins London had to offer.

His father scoffed. “You must eventually marry. Lady Juliana is as good as any other chit you could find on the marriage mart.”

“What of Lady Juliana’s father? Will he not take this as a slight against him?” The earl was an old friend of his father’s. Hence the reason his father had originally entertained the notion of Grafton marrying the girl.

“He understands the situation. If his daughter were presented the opportunity to marry into a dukedom, he would take it.”

Vincent opened his mouth, but his mind refused to conjure more excuses. He snapped his jaw shut and stared blankly at the silver inkwell on the oak desk. He had no desire to change his life. None whatsoever. He didn’t need to marry now, nor did he want to.

Yet that old need to please rose up, threatening to clog his throat. His father actually needed him for something, even if it was only to use him to further his own greedy ambitions. Nor were Society’s expectations so easy to push aside. Men of his standing married young ladies with aristocratic blood flowing through their veins. They made alliances for the good of their families without thought to their own selfish desires. But still…

He felt as if he were being pulled apart by opposing forces. One part of him screaming no, while the other part, the part that strove to be an upstanding and well-respected gentleman, the type of man a father would be proud to call son, wanted to bow his head in agreement.

The rustle of papers broke through the riot in his head. His father was pulling a bundle of papers from a drawer. He flipped through the stack and selected a sheet. “You will pay Lady Juliana a call tomorrow. She will be expecting you. I want you married before the New Year.”

The man hadn’t even bothered to ask if he agreed. His father had made his wishes known and expected nothing less than strict adherence.

Vincent took the dismissal for what it was and left the study. His footsteps echoed in the spacious entrance hall, the sound smacking his ears, unnaturally loud, as he made his way out of the stately mansion.

His footman opened the door as he approached the carriage. He stepped inside and sat on the bench.

“My lord? Where to?”

“Ah.” Vincent gave his head a sharp shake. Supper. Yes, he needed to pick up supper. “White’s.”

The door snapped shut.

“Damn. The wine.” He cursed under his breath. He had forgotten to get it before he left the house. Oh well. A bottle from White’s would have to do.

The gentlemen’s club wasn’t that far from his father’s house, and soon the carriage was winding its way to Cheapside, a wicker basket on the floor between his feet containing the supper the chef had kept warm.

Marsden would understand, he told himself over and over as he stared out the window. They were both second sons to marquesses. Society and duty to one’s family held certain obligations. Marsden would grasp the complexity of the situation his father had placed him in. Christ, he had to understand because, by God, Vincent needed his friend’s advice on what the hell he should do.