"This is just as important for you as it is for Anne." Beatrice continued, a scalding edge evident in her voice. "Since you decided something was wrong with Lady Helena—"
"I never said anything was wrong with her." Weston retorted, growing well aware that his mother was only trying to bait him.
"I handed her to you on a silver platter, and you decided to do nothing with it."
"And that was no fault of Lady Helena, mother. I wasn't interested."
"You need to stop hounding around with this narrative. You're a Marquess now. It is your duty to have a wife. I don't want to hear any nonsense about Eliza anymore. It has been six long years. Brooding over the past is not going to do you or anyone else any good."
Weston nodded. "Yes, mother."
The fate of Estfield Manor relies on you. Look at what happened to Richard."
Weston drew a tired breath.Not this again.
"He died without an heir. Do you want that to be your fate as well?"
"No, mother."
"Then I suggest you start impressing on London's elite spinsters. None of them will be as influential as Lady Helena, but we might be able to salvage what's left of this crisis."
Weston nodded again, his hands now on his sides as he stood before the giant mirror. He was done dressing up.
"I will get married when I am ready, Mother. Not a second before."
"You will not take that tone with me, son." Beatrice retorted, rising from the chair. Her shoes knocked menacingly into the ground as she walked towards Weston, an angry expression on her face. "Be that as it may, I am still your mother."
Weston nodded and lowered his face to the ground. "Apologies, Mother."
"Now, you will attend the ball with your sister, and be sure to talk to a few other women. Most of them are going to be behind their masks, so striking conversations shouldn't be as hard as it has to be. Do you hear me?"
"Yes, mother."
"Good. I shall go check on your sister to see if she's ready. Inform the steward to ready the carriages. We leave in a few moments."
Weston nodded.
"And change that waistcoat. The blue one is far bet—"
"I either go like this, or I don't go at all." Weston interrupted, his voice solid and firm. He might be required to obey his mother, but this decision he had to make himself.
Beatrice huffed in desperate resignation and, a few moments later, stalked angrily out of her son's room.
Weston turned to look at the mirror. The clothes made him feel restricted and somewhat limited. He wasn't free. The pressure of the title was bearing down on him, and he knew it was only a matter of time before he snapped.
A few months back, he'd purchased a cottage along the Scottish border. No one else knew this apart from Charles. For a few moments, he entertained the thought of having to retire to the cottage and live the rest of his life surrounded by silence and sheer freedom. He exited his room and asked one of his servants to fetch the head steward.
"Are the carriages ready? We leave soon." He asked once the steward appeared.
"Yes. The horses are being brushed one last time, Marquess." The steward replied. Weston nodded and watched him retire back into his duties.
He was absolutely sure the steward would be capable of taking care of the Manor himself if he had to. He returned to his room and looked outside the window at the vast grassy fields ahead. The sky had grown entirely dark, and the moon was beginning to appear slowly. He reminded himself once again that he was only doing this for his sister. The image of his secret cottage resurfaced in his mind once again. He thought of the silence he would be able to enjoy if he could escape the shackles of politics. He never asked for any of this, and if he could give them away, he would in a heartbeat. The idea of living out his years among tall trees and a babbling brook became a guilty fantasy of his.
"This is only temporary." He whispered as if giving himself a sordid reminder. All he needed to do was ensure his sister was well-received by the social society. He liked the lieutenant she had danced with the other day. If he were serious about her, he would return to ask for her hand. Weston was sure Anne liked him too, and if all went well, a wedding would be underway. Once he managed to marry his sister off to a good man, he would try to escape his life. He would run away from the estate, from his mother, from the title and the pressure that came with it. He would leave everything behind.
Even his beloved crimson waistcoats.
A maid gently knocked on his door, shaking him from his reverie.
