Chapter 2

 

 

Early the next morning, having spent the night in his chair in the study, Miles awoke to a dreadful knocking on his study door. His idea of putting the matter to rest had been to drink himself into a stupor and pass out where he sat. Now, the knocking was drilling a hole in his head.

 

“What?” he screamed, hoping his ill-tempered voice would make whoever it was go away.

 

When Miles saw who entered his private domain, he knew he was in trouble. The elegant woman, dressed in the latest fashion, with a hat that barely fit through his doorway from all the peacock feathers, came to stand before him, staring in disapproval. Her pinched lips and squinty eyes made Miles want to walk right out of the room and find the first available place to  hide.

 

“Your grace,” was all the woman said. She stood like a gargoyle, awaiting his response.

 

“Mother,” Miles returned with equanimity. As much as Miles detested his father, his relationship with his mother was no better. She was a woman of the ton, a gossip mongering, judgmental person with nothing better to do but try to ruin other people's lives. Her marriage had never been loving and her ability to be maternal, non-existent.

 

“You look dreadful. Did you sleep in that chair?” Miles always equated his mother's voice to an angry goose, all honking and vicious.

 

“Yes, what of it? Last time I checked, madam, I was free to make my own bad decisions.” Miles took his head in his hands and rubbed his throbbing temples.

 

Watching her son, the dowager duchess had some sympathy for him. She walked to the bell pull and summoned a footman. When the young man entered, she ordered some tea and toast and returned to sit in the other wing chair by her son.

 

“I missed you last night at my dinner party. I had many young ladies lined up for you to peruse. As a duke, you really must think about getting married.”

 

This was an old argument that cropped up every few months since he'd left school. Of course, in those days, he was only the heir apparent. Now that he assumed his role as duke, he needed a wife and an heir of his own.

 

“You would not even have to like her. Just enough to produce an heir. Your life does not have to change, Sutherland. You can continue your tom cat ways.” Her small smile was an indication of how devoted she had been to her own wedding vows.

 

“Thank you, mother. That is of great reassurance.” Miles stood as the footman entered the room with the tray. He saw that his chef was smart enough to put coffee on the tray, instead of tea. Pouring himself a cup, ignoring his guest completely, Miles sat at his desk and drank deeply of the rich brew.

 

“I am planning a party at my estate in Shropshire. You are to attend and mingle with the young women. Then, you are to choose one to be your wife.” Miles realized that it was entirely too early for his mother's high-handedness and bad attitude.

 

“No,” was his only reply, which he made before taking another sip of his coffee.

 

“You have no choice.”

 

Turning his head to side and regarding his mother carefully, he asked, “And why is that?”

 

“Because if you don't attend and make a match, I shall start talk about you and that married woman you spent a year cavorting with. When I am done, she won't be able to be seen in respectable company.” The dowager's eyes sparkled with the venom she spewed.

 

Miles' expression remained passive, but inside he reeled over the threat. As angry as he was with Bethany for breaking his heart, he would never wish something as heinous as allowing his mother to start discreet rumors about her. The effects of which would follow her until her dying day.

 

“You are truly an evil woman, mother.” His voice kept a passive monotone. Miles had never hated anyone as much as he hated his mother at that moment.

 

Smiling her victory, the dowager rose from her place and moved toward the door. “Then I can expect you?”

 

“Of course. I would not miss it for the world.”

 

The dowager took her leave and none too soon. Miles had the feeling that he would be violently ill.